


See the Light

by pixelpunk



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholic Guilt, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Gang Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sexual Harassment, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixelpunk/pseuds/pixelpunk
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is a newly-ex mob member, who, after being beaten senseless and running for his life from his former cohorts, stumbles into the bookshop of one Mr. Aziraphale. Where he was expecting to be thrown into the street, he instead finds himself taken under the wing of this kind stranger - after all, he really has nowhere else to go, does he?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 180
Kudos: 342





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> _"Well, I crossed the river  
>  Fell into the sea  
> Where the non-believers  
> Go beyond belief  
> Then I scratched the surface  
> In the mouth of hell  
> Running out of service  
> In the blood I fell."_  
> \- See the Light, by Green Day
> 
> This fic was heavily inspired by @10yrsyart on Tumblr's ex-mafia AU, which means I'm taking more inspiration from the book's characterizations! I've included a link at the end for the art piece that I'm specifically basing this on, so if you want to see the exact designs that are in my head, feel free. Also, this fic is already mostly written, but it's still a WIP, so I'm keeping the tags and chapter number in flux for now. They will probably become fixed once I get everything polished up.
> 
> Enjoy my first foray into Ineffable Husbands!

Anthony J. Crowley was too nice to be in the mafia.

That’s the fact that he had quietly avoided for years, dancing around the truth like one dances on hot sand at a beach. He was charming, easygoing, and excellent at bullshitting – one of the best, in fact. It was something he prided himself on. It let him go modestly far in his career. Not too far as to attract the wrong kind of attention, just comfortably far. He was perfectly content to stagnate, just floating around in the middle of the pack, making enough to make ends meet.

Because he didn’t wake up one day and think, _“I think today I’ll join a crime syndicate!”_

He just hung around the wrong people.

And one day, he realized that there was no going back.

And one day, the fact that he had refused to acknowledge came around to bite him in the ass, as repressed truths are often wont to do.

And one day, he found himself pale, bruised, beaten to a bloody pulp, and dangerously close to crying if he weren’t running for his damn life.

_All I did was ask a few questions. Is that really all it takes?_

Yes. Yes it was. And he was never exceptionally bright, was he, he thought bitterly through short gasps between teeth. He sprinted down a narrow brick alleyway, hyperconscious of the pounding, coordinated footsteps behind him. Three sets now, he had managed to knock out the scrawniest one, but didn’t have a chance in hell of taking down the rest. He had to do what he did best – slither away.

Except he was fucking covered in his own blood and pretty sure he had a cracked rib. Where the hell was he going to go? At this point, his train of thought was nothing more than a panicked scream in the back of his head as his body struggled to keep him alive. He didn’t really even think about where he was going anymore, operating purely on instinct. He jumped at the last second over an overturned rubbish bin, crying out in pain when his ribs protested, but rewarded with the clanging sound of someone, probably Lig, kicking the metal and cursing loudly.

Crowley ducked, focused single-mindedly on his own panic and terror, into the break in the grimy alley wall, instinct propelling him past the square nook and through the nondescript, surprisingly clean red door. Unlocked. Closed it silently behind him, because five years in the mob teaches you how to do a few things. 

_Pointless, anyway, there’s no way they didn’t see me._

He only barely registered when he looked around the dimly lit room, realizing he was in the small back entrance of a bookshop. A very quaint, old-fashioned bookshop filled with clutter and dusty, peeling tomes, the kind that produced within Crowley a Pavlovian reaction of boredom from his limited time in school. His pulse thundered in his ears, and he looked around for witnesses to the intrusion, but the place was dead silent. That didn’t mean anything, though. Not everyone was stupid enough to fall into a cliché _“Is anyone there?”_ upon hearing the noises after dark; the proprietor of the place could be readying a crowbar and rounding the corner any moment now. Crowley had to be silent, take a breath, and leave as soon as he could while managing to lose the grunts’ trail. He shook violently against the door and his hand came to clasp tightly against his bloody lips. 

_One-two. Try to breath. Oh, fuck._

His vision was so blurry from the tremors and the dormant tears that when the shadows moved in front of him, he froze. Couldn’t even spare the energy to flinch. When the figure stepped into his line of sight, Crowley faintly realized that he recognized the man before him.

Crowley knew the area, and knew it well – it was in his job description, after all. He had seen this man, always wearing pastel colors and a warm smile, frequenting local cafés and bakeries, chatting animatedly with regulars and workers, before returning to a deceptively small corner shop with such prime real estate that Crowley’s ‘family’ had placed it on their ‘to-do’ list. Hadn’t gotten around to it, yet.

The bookshop owner was tall, broad, and plump, with wire glasses, blond curls, and a baby-pink sweater vest. His face was round, cherubic, one of those faces that was timeless – he could have very well been in his thirties or in his sixties. Smile lines and heavyset dimples, thrown into relief with the dim light, casting shadows at his feet.

He wasn’t smiling. He was staring at Crowley with a piercing, calculating focus. Crowley was in the middle of waiting for something to happen, probably bad, when an awful _bang_ from the front of the shop made them both start. Before he could do anything, though, the man swiftly crowded Crowley against the wall, one of his broad hands finding the small of his back, the other reaching over his shoulder and sliding three different locks into place. Crowley reached forward, still woozy, and his trembling grasp was met with the man’s hand. 

At the front of the shop, the outside street lamps created the shapes of four fuzzy figures through the glass. Crowley had half a mind, and still could scoff internally at the lack of polish. They were clearly too stupid to find where Crowley had slipped in the back, and now what? They were causing a scene in the middle of the street? He had a faint tick of satisfaction that the higher-ups were going to lay into them for that. Except that they were now surely going to catch him. 

The banging increased.

“We’re closed!” the man shouted firmly.

Crowley’s eyes focused. The man was- he was _holding him up._ A bloody, suspicious stranger who by all means broke into his shop, and the man was holding him steadily, with a straight posture and a calm conviction. He had no idea what was happening, only certainty that this was all going to go to shit any moment now – but despite his common senses, this man seemed like a calm during a storm, offering safety and protection. Like a guardian angel.

No, he was definitely suffering from a loss of blood. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from clinging to the soft fabric of the man’s sleeve like a lifeline, knowing it would likely be the last pleasant thing he could ever feel.

The banging was halfhearted, now, before the two men could hear a brief, angry exchange, muffled by the glass. Then, the heavy pattering of several sets of shoes going running off into the night. Then, silence, except for an awful, clattering, bone-chilling wind that scraped the insides of Crowley’s head and shook him like a leaf. The man turned to him, his expression strange, one that Crowley couldn’t recognize. He pressed the one large hand on Crowley’s back toward him, lifting a little, reaching up to pry the hand clamped over his mouth away, with some effort after it was proven that the muscles were tensed and seemingly locked in place. They locked eyes for a moment after Crowley’s face was fully exposed, before the man seemed to appraise him fully for the first time, that confusing expression on his face intensifying.

“Hm. Are you quite all right, dear?” 

After hearing the man shout, Crowley registered his voice was posh, prim, but warm. He couldn’t answer, just kept staring at the grip his hand had on the soft pink sleeve in front of him.

“Of course you aren’t – breathe, there, just breathe, you’re hyperventilating. Let me get you a blanket, I rather think you might be going into shock.”

_Ah._

The wind that was tearing into the silence was Crowley’s desperate pants for air. And at once, he recognized the expression on the man’s face as _concern._

When he turned to pull away, Crowley’s fingers tightened instinctively on his forearm, reached forward with his other hand to grab the man’s shoulder without thinking. _Don’t go,_ he thought, _Please._ He braced himself to be torn into or tossed onto the floor.

“Ah. Hm. I see. Well. Can you breathe for me, dear? Try to sync your breaths to mine. Listen to my breathing, see if you can’t do that for me. Here…”

The man breathed exaggeratedly, one-two, a steady pace. Through a painful, confused fog of understanding, Crowley could do this much. He obeyed, slowing down, until the howl of his lungs quieted to an uneasy rhythm. He could think a little clearer now. Right now, he was thinking about panicking, and watching his blood drip steadily onto this stranger’s floor.

“Erm,” he tried, cringing at how weak and pathetic his voice sounded in his ringing ears, “Th-Thank you.”

“You’re certainly welcome, although, as I’m sure you might be aware, I would indeed like an explanation.”

Crowley stared at his own fingers, loosened them from their iron hold on the man’s shirt as he came back to himself in that moment. He crossed his arms across his chest, almost trying an instinctual step away from the man until realizing his back was still pressed against the door, with the man’s hand gently resting on the small of his back. Which he made no move to pull away, even as Crowley looked uncomfortably at the floor and fidgeted. He blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re not safe.” 

“I’m sorry?” The man laughed incredulously. “I rather think that it is _you_ who’s not safe, am I wrong?”

Crowley sighed, which came out as more of a wheeze, then a cough, spattering droplets of red onto the man’s front.

“Ah, s-shit, I’m sorry, I need… I need to go.” 

He needed a few things, one of which was to go find a place to patch himself up without putting himself either in the debt or the ratting out of a kindly civilian. He struggled to stand up straight and failed when the man grabbed his wrist with a surprisingly strong hold-

“Oh no, I don’t think you do. Go where, exactly? Out there, where those men were looking for you?” He sounded like a cross parent, almost, and a hysterical laugh bubbled its way to Crowley’s throat.

“I can take care of _that_ myself.” 

The man raised a single blonde eyebrow, looking him up and down. Crowley’s face burned.

“Who are _you_ to- to- anyway, it’s _my_ problem, not yours! Just- let me go, and I’ll be out of, out of your hair, and-”

He interrupted Crowley’s stuttering with a single finger that silenced him immediately. He looked _concerned_ again.

“You need medical attention, dear boy. I cannot, in good conscience, simply send you on your way.”

Crowley hissed.

“I’m not going to a hospital.”

He tutted, smiling gently. Crowley looked up and met the man’s gaze. Cornflower blue eyes, crinkled at the edges and singularly focused on him. Now he knew he was in trouble, because he had never in his life described a color as _cornflower._

_What even is a cornflower, anyway? I think I have a concussion._

“Who said anything about a hospital? I have a first aid kit in the back room.”

He could feel those eyes boring into his face, even as Crowley stared determinedly at the floor, not able to spare the strength to even meet the man halfway. He was too drained for shows of dominance. He swayed slightly, again, and this time the man planted both hands firmly on his shoulders and hoisted him upright with surprising strength.

“That settles it. I’m going to help you, my dear boy, and then you’re going to stay here and tell me what happened.”

Crowley nodded. Swayed.

“I’m going to pass out now.”

And lost his vision as he toppled forward into a soft embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10yrsyart's Ex-mafia AU:  
> https://10yrsyart.tumblr.com/post/188604937887/can-we-see-your-interpretation-of-a-human-au-of


	2. An Arrangement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind words and encouragement you have given this fic! I was super pleasantly surprised by the initial response, and it means the world to know you guys are waiting eagerly for more.  
> This chapter's a bit longer in exchange for the wait, as the first chapter was more of a teaser than anything. I'll most likely start updating on a once a week basis, but that's subject to change considering my hectic school schedule.  
> Also: this fic is unbeta'd. If you find any typos, feel free to point them out in the comments. But don't forget to leave other comments that are actually about the fic as well!

Crowley first became aware of one thing: pain. Not an unfamiliar thing for him to wake up to, but the sheer _amount_ of pain, all over his body, was definitely pinging some distant alarm bells in his head. The next thing that he was sure of was that he was laying on a hard, cold surface, but that he had something soft shoved under his head that didn’t feel like a pillow, and had a distinct smell about it – something sweet and inviting, and something metallic and dingy, like rust. Then, as he stirred just a bit in half-awake confusion, he felt hands on his torso, unnaturally smooth fingers touching naked skin in the places where he hurt the worst.

All at once, his brain slapped him with awareness. His eyes slammed open. With a strangled gasp, he shot upwards, which his body _vehemently_ protested to with the sensation of being hit by a bus.

“Oh, dear, calm down. I only just finished stitching those up.”

Crowley squinted, nearly blinded by the man standing over him, who had his pink sleeves rolled up to the elbow and white gloved hands before him in a placating gesture. The dimly lit sight of him before hadn’t done him any justice. Everything about him was fair; his hair was gold and platinum, his skin rosy and smooth, and his eyes were _painfully_ blue. The room was so bright, and the light that seemed to emanate from him in a glowing halo was almost unbearable to look at. Crowley felt a hot wash of flustered, directionless shame, moving as if to scramble away despite the pain and the man’s words.

“Don’t. Don’t you move,” he said, stern, pushing at Crowley’s chest for him to lay back down.

In pain, in confusion, and something else entirely, Crowley found himself obeying.

Crowley observed, as his mental facilities slowly returned to him, that the room was something akin to an office. He was laying atop an enormous, handsome mahogany desk, with a pink sweater vest spattered with streaks of red bunched up where his head was. He gingerly laid back down.

The man turned away for a moment, bringing with him a roll of gauze tape that he brandished with authority. Crowley craned his neck and looked down at his bare torso. His olive skin was covered in bruises of shapes, sizes, and color, all of which seemed to be glistening with some sort of salve. The gashes and scrapes decorating his arms and slender chest were cleaned of blood, some with the same sheen to them, others hidden under small bandages, and the largest cuts were stitched neatly together. Most alarmingly, there was a six-inch slash wound on his right side that was festering and burning with the most ferocity. 

He winced, trying not to remember. In the moment… it had all blended together into the same pain, the same severity. It didn’t seem like there were any broken bones, though, and for that he had to count his fucking blessings.

He brought his shaking hand up to his face, gingerly touching the bandaged wound on his cheek, then his forehead.

“Careful,” was all the man said in admonishment, seeming focused on the worst wound. He unwrapped the gauze, pressing the pad gently against Crowley’s stomach, before unfurling the tape and attaching the bandage to the wound with practice. Crowley couldn’t tear his eyes away. Miraculously, not a single one of his touches seemed to exacerbate the pain. 

Once the wound was secured and hidden, he smoothed his gloved hand across it, seemingly satisfied with his work. The man peeled his gloves off and deposited them into a wastebasket full of blood-stained cotton next to the desk, before wiping his forehead with the crook of his elbow.

“There. You may sit up now, _carefully._ ”

Crowley propped himself up on his forearms, wincing, ignoring the man’s offered hands for support, and slowly brought himself to sit up and glance warily around the room. His torso was bare, and his shoes and socks had been removed, but his slacks remained on. After stretching his legs out, he determined that, while stiff and sore, he must not have busted anything serious below the belt, thank _fuck._ He shivered involuntarily, wondering if the man had checked.

“Cold?” The man had begun tidying around Crowley, snapping shut a huge first aid kit that looked industry-grade.

“Er-”

“Here.” He was handed a plush tartan throw blanket that he pulled off an armchair in the corner. Crowley begrudgingly wrapped it around his shoulders. The man also produced a glass of water and a palm full of two pills.

“Take these, and drink this whole glass with it.”

Crowley took them and swallowed the pills immediately without thinking, chugging the glass of water down.

_If it’s poison, whatever. One way to solve my problem._

The room was hued with rich earth tones, with the same clumsy, cluttered charm as the shop was. Framed by walls of neatly organized bookshelves on either side of the desk, two squishy-looking burgundy armchairs, antique tables covered with bright lamps and mugs, and a large window covered in a thick green curtain. No light streamed in, meaning it was still dark out, but the huge chandelier and the multiple other light sources meant that it was still obscenely bright, enough to form the familiar pinching headache he got from his stupid freak eyes. When he instinctively reached down to his left pocket, he came up empty-handed.

“Erm. Where are my sunglasses?”

“Sunglasses? I’m afraid I didn’t find any.”

 _Fucking great._ They must’ve fell out of his pocket when he was running.

“What about my clothes?”

The man paused in the middle of neatly rolling his sleeves down, indicating him with surprise.

“Why, they were _filthy,_ and torn all over. At the very least, your shirt was. Flimsy thing – why does anyone wear silk these days? I threw them away. They were beyond salvation, trust me. I gave your shoes a quick wipe and left them the entry, but I had other priorities, as it were.”

Crowley hissed in frustration.

“What am I supposed to wear to get out of here?”

The man looked at him sharply, crossing his arms.

“That is of no concern to you as of right now. I do believe, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, that you owe me a few words.”

He gaped.

“How-”

“Why, it was embroidered on the tags of your shirt,” he smiled broadly. “And your trousers.”

“Gck.” Crowley’s face burned.

_Stupid, bloody, taste for designer tailoring – wait, does this mean he took my slacks off, too? Shit, what pants am I wearing right now? SHUT UP WHY DOES THAT MATTER-_

“FINE. Fine. Right. Well.” He wrapped the blanket around him tighter. He really, really wished he had his glasses. “Crowley. Call me Crowley. And, um, who are you?”

“Mr. Aziraphale. Just Aziraphale will do.”

“Azira…phale?” Crowley sounded the word out quizzically.

“That’s right.”

The man, Aziraphale, smiled benignly and didn’t elaborate.

_Weirdest name I ever heard on someone who wasn’t mob._

“Alright. Aziraphale. Erm.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, I s’pose?”

“You’re very welcome, dear.”

Said nothing more, just waiting patiently.

“I can’t- Well.” Crowley laughed, bitterly, a sound that ached in his chest.

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m dead meat.”

Aziraphale regarded him, expression turning serious. He walked closer, putting one hand on the desk next to him.

“Those men were intending to kill you, after all, then. Why?”

There it was. Crowley wanted to lie. It was his first instinct to do so. He would get away with it. But why should he? What did he have to lose? He wasn’t going to last, anyway.

“I’m- er, I was… Of the _family_ ‘round these parts. But I’ve been… excommunicated.”

“’Family?’” He frowned. Crowley just scowled at him. Then, his eyebrows shot up, his spine straightening.

“You don’t mean…?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale rubbed his chin.

“Hm,” he said. Something about the way his brow furrowed and his temples worked told Crowley he was deep in thought, so he let him think, braced for anything.

“I could have guessed, of course. I rather didn’t want to assume.”

And Crowley almost scoffed at that, but stopped himself.

“Well? Are you gonna let me leave now, or call the cops?”

Aziraphale looked horrified.

“Of course not!”

“To which of those?”

“Both.”

“Wha- The hell you mean, you won’t let me leave? Did you not get that I’m from the bloody _mob_?”

Aziraphale sighed, unaffected.

“You’re horribly injured. They would have little trouble finding you in this state, would they not?”

Crowley spluttered in frustration. Before he could get another word out-

“Crowley.”

Crowley looked up, and found his yellow eyes trapped in the man’s blue gaze. Aziraphale calmly reached up and removed his own glasses, folding them and letting them rest on the chain around his neck. 

He was paralyzed. 

“If you truly were to leave… do you really have anywhere to go?”

Aziraphale was right, of course. Crowley said nothing, just helplessly stared up at him, feeling so damn scared that it may just eat him alive.

“That is all there is to it. You’re to stay here for now.”

He smiled, brightly, and something in his expression made an involuntary shiver run down Crowley’s back. When had their faces gotten so close? Crowley tore his eyes away, standing up from the desk, throwing the blanket onto the floor, ignoring the way his limbs ached. Aziraphale calmly watched as he began to pace back and forth on the shag carpeting.

“You’re not safe, dammit, you stupid old man!” Crowley, of course, had no idea if Aziraphale was old or not, but no one owned a tartan throw blanket and velvet armchairs who wasn’t over forty, at the very least. Aziraphale just laughed, ruefully.

“And by that, do you mean from them? Or… yourself?”

“ _Both._ Obviously.” He stood up straight, trying to look as intimidating as possible in his half-dressed, battered state. By Aziraphale’s bemused expression, it wasn’t working.

“You’re unarmed.”

He was right again. Shit.

“Bwuh- What about them, then?”

Aziraphale raised his chin, smoothing the front of his shirt.

“I have the means in my disposal to protect myself and this shop. I’m not necessarily worried about that right now.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means, Crowley, that this- oh, what is the phrase? ‘Ain’t my first rodeo.’”

That stunned Crowley into silence.

_Who is the hell is this guy?_

“Do not mistake my intent, dear. I don’t trust you. Of course I don’t – you were a criminal.”

Crowley winced. Aziraphale pressed harder.

“However, you’re not anymore, are you?”

“Uh…”

“They kicked you out, you said. Why?”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, _embarrassed_ by Aziraphale’s interrogation for some godforsaken reason.

“I… got too nosy. Asked some questions, pointed out some stuff I wasn’t s’posed to, because I didn’t like it happening.”

“Ghastly business, I assume.”

“Yeah.”

“I see.” 

Aziraphale thought for another moment, nodded like this was all making sense, then clapped his hands together, making Crowley jump.

“Starting now, you are going to be making an honest living. You are to stay here, help me with the shop, and in exchange, I shall keep you hidden from any undesirables that should come knocking.”

He walked over to Crowley, placed one hand firmly on his bare shoulder. Crowley shivered again at the sudden proximity.

“I do not want someone’s death on my conscience, especially if they have a chance of redemption with my help. However, dear boy, if you should do anything _untowardly_ that would make me rescind this good will…”

He was still smiling pleasantly. Crowley felt the urge to shrink away and cower.

“Well. No reasonable person would blame me for turning you into the authorities, isn’t that so?”

Crowley couldn’t make sense of this. His head was spinning. 

He nodded anyway. What choice did he have?

“Aziraphale… Your shop. It was on the list. They’ll be coming by eventually anyway, to threaten you into selling it.”

“Oh, they already have.” Aziraphale patted his cheek fondly, making him wince. “They won’t be back again. Or at least, not for a while.”

_…What?_

“Come, come, it’s ever so late. I’ll show you upstairs, it’s been a rather long day, hasn’t it? It took me a few hours to patch you up. You’ll need your rest to heal.”

Still reeling from the barrage of questions he wanted to demand that this stranger answer, he stepped backward uncomfortably, glancing back down again at his body, and the neat, professional skill that Aziraphale had performed upon him. He knew his way around injuries well enough from _his_ profession, but a _bookshop owner_?

“A few hours? Er- Are you a doctor?”

Aziraphale chuckled, folding his hands neatly in front of him.

“I was, yes. Of sorts. I’ve retired from that line of work, I’m afraid. My true passion is literature.”

“Right. Um.” Crowley had to stop himself from saying that hated reading.

“We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other at another time. Let’s focus on getting to bed, for now.”

Crowley nodded. His exhaustion won out over his curiosity. 

Aziraphale walked around the room, clicking off all the lamps. Crowley sighed in relief when the room dimmed to just the chandelier. His headache was still awful, but that was probably more from the stress and head trauma. 

“Something the matter?”

“Er. No. Just,” He waved his hand in the light’s general direction. “Light sensitivity.”

“Oh, dear, I see. I apologize, I didn’t realize. Will you be needing new sunglasses?”

“Yes. Eventually. It’s not- I’m fine.” 

Crowley didn’t say that most of the time, if it wasn’t extremely bright or in direct sunlight, he could _technically_ do without them. He didn’t say why he still _needed_ to wear them always, why he felt stripped naked without them. He stared at the floor.

“By the way… your eyes. They aren’t some of those newfangled fashion contact lenses, are they?”

Crowley sighed, too weary to even be incredulous at Aziraphale’s unironic use of “newfangled.”

“No. They’re not.”

“Hm.”

He begrudgingly followed as Aziraphale walked to the entrance and opened the ornately carved wooden door, finally flicking the overhead light switch off, before looking fondly over his shoulder at Crowley in the shadows.

“They’re really quite lovely.”

An involuntary intake of breath rocked Crowley’s frame.

“ _Lovely_?”

“Yes, of course. They’re beautiful, especially how they contrast with your dark hair,” Aziraphale stated casually.

As if they were talking about the weather. As if that was a completely normal thing to say to another man - that he had just met, no less. Crowley felt like he had just been dipped in boiling water.

“Uhf- Erm- That’s-”

“You’re welcome. Are you going to stand there in the dark forever, dear?” Aziraphale cocked his head at him.

Crowley stumbled and hurried forward, avoiding Aziraphale’s glance as well as the hot, squirming feeling in his guts at all cost. He crossed his arms as Aziraphale produced a key and locked the door behind them.

“This way.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale wordlessly through a maze of shelves, through another locked door, up a narrow and steep flight of stairs, and into what looked like the dark entry room to a flat. Aziraphale hurried him along before Crowley could get a chance to look around the place, not turning any lights on, leading him down a hallway before turning and gently pushing him into the open doorway of a room. Bright, unfettered moonlight was streaming through the small, open window on the other side of the door, allowing Crowley to make out a neatly made twin bed, a whole slew of cardboard boxes, a few more smaller bookshelves, and a small open door that led to a tiny bathroom.

“Guest room. Doubles as a little extra storage, you see. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Crowley stepped into the room, turning to face Aziraphale in the dark. There was so much he wanted to say that it was nearly overwhelming him, but when he opened his mouth, he felt lost.

Aziraphale’s kindly face, bleached black-and-white by the moon, was steady in its dimpled smile.

“I should also inform you that this door _does_ lock from the outside, so I am going to ensure that you don’t leave or do anything except sleep tonight.”

“ _What-_ ” 

“Safety precaution – mine and yours, dear boy.”

The door shut, and Crowley hear the _click_ of a lock as he stood there stupidly with a slack jaw.

“There are extra blankets in the closet if you get cold. I’ll see you in the morning, Crowley!”


	3. New Horizons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, folks! I had a whole lot of busy life stuff happening, including my 21st birthday, and I also ended up writing an absolute monster of a chapter - twice the length of the entire fic, practically. I decided to tweak it a little and publish two smaller updates this week, so you can expect another longer (and juicier) addition later this weekend.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and that the wait was worth it!

Crowley remembered precious little after that. He stood there for a moment, staring at the night outside, before turning on autopilot to unbuckle his trousers with clumsy fingers and toss them into the corner of the room. His last conscious thought, as he slid into the stiff, clean sheets and smelled that unfamiliar bed smell he associated with motels, was that the tight black briefs he was wearing were inside out, and he wondered if Aziraphale had noticed.

When Crowley dreamed, there were no images. Only colors and emotions. He saw black and red and felt pain, he felt gold and blue and saw euphoria, and in it all he knew the buzzing, tangible backdrop of fear lighting his feet and chest aflame with revulsion and _want._

He woke up, once, and did not think of anything, but stumbled to the sink and drank messily from the tap until his stomach protested. He was asleep again before his head hit the pillow, and did not dream any more.

The second time he woke, it was to the metallic _click_ of a doorknob. The sound, echoing in Crowley’s sore head, brought with it the sudden and fierce urge to hide. He ducked under the covers.

“Crowley?”

He mumbled something incoherent into his pillow, heart pounding. There was nothing he wanted to do _less_ than face his current situation, thrown into the harsh light of day.

There was an airy chuckle.

“I’ve let you sleep in as much as I could. Not a morning person, are we, sleepyhead?”

“Fuck no.”

“Come, now. There’s no use delaying the inevitable.”

“I’m very good at denial.” The more Crowley awoke, the more he was aware of the deep ache of his bruises and the dry burn of his cuts, especially the bone-deep sting around his bare midsection. There was no doubt that he’d have to undergo more first aid at Aziraphale’s hand today…

Crowley gave a guttural hiss, his hand flying up to shield his eyes as the quilt was abruptly yanked away from his head. Aziraphale was standing over him, looking radiant and chipper in the bright white morning sunshine and a baby blue sweater, holding a folded stack of fabric and the same first aid kit from last night. Crowley had a moment of panic at being exposed – _What state must my hair be in right now?_

“Oops! Terribly sorry, my dear, I confess I had completely forgotten about your eye problem-” Aziraphale set his things down on the bed and hurriedly tugged the curtains shut, dulling the intensity to a bearable level, “There, there, my apologies. Is that better?”

“Urgh. Better is a strong word.” Crowley ran his hands through the tangled mess of his dark hair, no doubt hanging greasy and unkempt around his face. His face felt hot with helplessness and annoyance.

“Oh, dear.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s troubled stare at his torso, finding the largest bandage speckled with soaked-through dark red, with a few of the uncovered cuts streaked with crusty dried blood. He couldn’t imagine what his face must look like.

_Glasses. First priority._

Almost as if he had read Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale reached into his breast pocket and produced a pair of Aviator-style sunglasses with dark, reflective lenses and black trim.

“Here, I found these after a bit of digging. They were a gift from a friend, but I’m afraid the style wasn’t my particular cup of tea. I think they would suit you wonderfully, though.”

Crowley swallowed hard. It was too early for this. He took them with sweaty hands, refusing eye contact, turning them over for a moment before snapping out of his fluster.

_Holy shit, these are expensive. Who is this ‘friend’?_

Feeling a swell of excitement, he slid them on, hoping that the mirrored lenses would hide him thoroughly. He exhaled in profound relief as he glanced around the newly dulled visage of the room and Aziraphale before him. True to the price tag, his visibility was still excellent, and he felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude crash against his sore ribcage.

“I hope those will suffice for now, at least until we can work out something better?” Aziraphale sat down on the bed, nonchalant.

Crowley couldn’t suppress the genuine smile that spread across his face.

“They’re – yes. I’m… thank you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him. He coughed, flushing, schooling his expression back into neutral.

“Of course, dear boy. I’m glad you like them.” Aziraphale smiled, a little indulgent, letting Crowley know that his vaguely polite reaction was easily seen through.

The perceptiveness of this man honestly terrified Crowley. 

“I have some clean clothes for you here, but first, I’m going to have to look at your injuries and change those bandages. I think you’ve already stained enough of my things, hm?”

Crowley winced.

“Right. Sorry.”

“It’s quite all right. Lay back down for me, that’s a dear.”

As Aziraphale cheerfully rolled up his sleeves, he reclined automatically at the order back onto his elbows, before realizing with a jolt that Aziraphale was going to pull back the covers and work on his half-naked body. 

“Erm. I can- I can do it myself, you know? Since you’re just cleaning it all up? You don’t need to worry yourself about it-”

“Pish posh, I insist. You’re in my care now, silly boy.”

Azirphale cheerfully ignored Crowley’s stammering and pulled the covers down to the foot of the bed, seemingly completely unperturbed by the mostly-stranger wearing nothing but silk boxer briefs. Crowley feared that his face was going to melt off. He knew that despite the dark tint to his skin, his cheeks and neck were bound to be a bright and boiling red. He felt it start to spread to his chest when Aziraphale looked him up and down wordlessly while pulling on another pair of medical gloves.

He willed himself to be completely still and unresponsive while Aziraphale busied himself, dabbing with damp wipes, applying disinfectant, rewrapping with clean bandages. But he couldn’t ignore the goosebumps that erupted under Aziraphale’s sterile, professional touch, his blush only intensifying and his muscles completely stiff. Crowley hated it, hated how now, in his lucid, rested state, he couldn’t blame any of it on delirium from blood loss.

He didn’t want to think about any of it, of why he was reacting the way he was. He pushed it down. A familiar solution.

Aziraphale finished the last of his tasks, neatly taping the last piece of gauze onto his chest. He huffed a smile, satisfied, before pausing with his eyebrows bunched together. He slowly, deliberately ran his fingertips in a sweeping motion over Crowley’s ribcage, then his middle, before stopping on the pointed jut of Crowley’s hipbones. The sudden shift from Aziraphale’s businesslike demeanor to _this_ had him paralyzed, his breath catching in his throat.

_Oh God oh God oh God oh God do NOT get a boner right now_

“You’re a skinny thing, aren’t you?”

Crowley scowled.

“Try these on for me. We can work out getting you some new things and throw your trousers in the wash after I run you through today. They’ll be a tad roomy, but should be long enough for you.”

Happy for a distraction, Crowley examined the pile of clothes that Aziraphale was referring to – and winced. It was a chunky knit cashmere lavender sweater and a pair of burgundy corduroys. It was even more clear that the stylish and expensive sunglasses were a gift from someone with far better style than this man. At least the fabrics were high-quality.

He stood and dressed, clumsy and begrudging, trying to ignore the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze watching him. Despite the discomfort of having to wear the same pants, he was glad Aziraphale hadn’t acknowledged his undergarments.

“Oh, I just knew that color would look splendid on you!” Aziraphale beamed and clapped his hands together.

_If this guy just keeps fucking complimenting me like that’s totally normal, I’m going to have a goddamned heart attack._

Crowley turned to the slightly dusty full-length mirror on the wall and cringed. He looked ridiculous. The sleeves covered his hands entirely and his neck poked out of the neckline, making him look, honestly, small and vulnerable, despite the fact that he boasted a 6’0 height. He grumbled and rolled the sleeves up three times to his elbows, trying and failing not to think about his several hundred-dollar designer silk shirt at the bottom of a trash can.

“Very well then, that’s all the housekeeping taken care of here. Meet me downstairs, if you will, I have breakfast and tea ready. We can discuss the details of this arrangement more then.” Aziraphale stood up and smoothed his shirt before leaving Crowley in his borrowed room.

No time for a shower, then. He supposed that made sense, what with the fresh wound dressings, but it was still daunting to face an entire day feeling this grimy. He splashed cold water on his face, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it without his usual product. As he brushed his teeth aggressively with the spare he found in a drawer, he grimaced at the gashes and the dark circles under his eyes. At least the sunglasses would hide one of those problems.

Crowley cautiously stepped out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

_Now’s my chance to look around._

The hallway was spacious, decorated with what looked like antique paintings of flowers and landscapes, with creaky old-world wooden flooring haphazardly covered with a long blue rug. Another larger door was at the end of the hall, open just a crack. Aziraphale’s bedroom, then. Crowley slinked toward it, bare feet with practiced motions knowing just how not to make sound, and peered inside.

He didn’t dare try to open the door more, so he could only see a fraction, but he saw part of a four-poster mahogany bed, neatly made with fluffy mismatched blankets and throw pillows, and a nightstand absolutely stacked high with various tomes. One was set on the bed itself with a lacey bookmark poking out the top. He could just barely make out the peeling cover – _Paradise Lost._

A creaking sound coming from downstairs made him freeze, shoving his hands in his pockets and hurriedly scurrying down the hall. Unsatisfied with the lack of any new important information and an ever-piqued curiosity, he made his way down the staircase before he could incriminate himself further on his first day here. 

A decently-sized kitchen and living room area greeted him, brightly lit and full of the typical smells that meant breakfast. There was somehow even more bookshelves, a squishy-looking couch and armchair, and even a wood-burning fireplace, unlit and dusted with ash. No T.V. that he could see. Aziraphale was sat, reading a newspaper and daintily sipping out of a porcelain teacup, at a huge, ornately carved wooden dining table right off the kitchen and absolutely loaded with food. He hadn’t noticed Crowley’s entrance yet, engrossed in his reading. Crowley frowned and examined a chipped pot stuffed full of wilting flowers on the bar counter, unable to stop himself from tutting.

“You need a bigger vase than this, or else the overcrowding will cause them to not get enough water and starve.”

Aziraphale glanced up and brightened at the sight of Crowley gently handling the leaves.

“Oh, I see, you must be a regular gardener, are you?”

Crowley gritted his teeth, quickly sitting down opposite of him.

“Er. A little. Maybe.”

“Those were a gift from a friend, she keeps a variety of plants in her yard. I’m afraid I can never keep anything alive for longer than a day, though,” Aziraphale chuckled fondly. “It’s one thing to read about a skill in a book, but another entirely to practice it in real life. Don’t you think?”

Crowley just nodded vaguely, reaching to grab the kettle. He preferred coffee, but beggars can’t be choosers; he needed as much caffeine as his body could handle today. Aziraphale frowned at his empty plate.

“Get something to eat, Crowley. You need it to heal.”

“Not really all that hungry, to be honest,” he said after a long draw from his cup. Herby, but floral and sweet.

“Nonsense. I made enough for two. I really insist that you eat at least some.”

The spread included crumpets and toasted cinnamon-raisin bread, a platter of what looked like cheesy scrambled eggs, sausages, along with an obscene assortment of butter, marmalade, honey and jams. Aziraphale’s plate already showed the evidence that he had eaten his fill, but he reached over and began to spread jam on a crumpet anyway.

Crowley acquiesced, reluctantly serving himself a tiny portion of eggs, a single sausage, and a slice of toast. He was suddenly forcefully reminded of visiting his grandma’s house as a kid, always being pressured to take more and more helpings of homemade treats.

Aziraphale’s mouth tightened at the serving sizes, as if he was holding back a demand to do better than that. A quiet laugh bubbled up into Crowley’s throat unexpectedly, snorting into his teacup.

“What’s funny, dear?”

“Oh, nothing, really. Do you – have you ever had any kids?”

Aziraphale’s head cocked at the left-field personal question. Crowley was immediately chagrined.

“Er. Sorry. Just curious.”

“I haven’t. Not my particular area, I’m afraid.”

_Oh. Does that mean-_

Aziraphale took a hearty bite of his crumpet, licking a hint of jam off the corner of his mouth and humming happily. Crowley’s head was reeling. Was he – well, like _that?_ The hints he’d gotten over the course of the past 24 hours came to mind. Was this confirmation? 

_What the hell. It’s none of your business. Even if he is, you got nowhere else to go._

_You’re stuck with him…_

_Guardian angel._

Suddenly exceedingly nervous, he turned his attention to the food on his plate, methodically forcing it down. It did taste good. Of course, the universe never happens to be kind to Anthony J. Crowley.

“Why do you ask?”

He choked a little, quickly grabbing his tea to wash it down.

“Um. Nothing. I just thought, er – well, you just seem pretty… um…” He cast his hand around, desperately looking for the right word that wasn’t _weird,_ “… nurturing.”

_GOOD BLOODY FUCKING JOB._

Crowley clutched his cup and chugged it down to avoid putting his foot in his mouth again, face on fire. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him and smiled a little. He was beginning to recognize that particular expression whenever he did or said something humiliating, and it made him want to crawl into a hole and die. Why, why couldn’t he just interact with this man like a _normal human?_

“That is an apt observation, darling boy.”

And yes, Aziraphale had been using those… _pet names_ … the whole time, but right at that moment, they were making everything so much worse.

“I happen to like taking care of people. Especially people in need.” He looked pointedly over his reading glasses.

“I’m not a charity case,” Crowley grumbled.

“I never said you were.” Aziraphale stood, startling Crowley a bit as he walked deliberately around the table. Crowley was a tall bloke, but this pastel grandma of a man looming over him was making him feel rather small. In more ways than one.

“Have you killed people, Crowley?”

He considered lying. He was good at it. It’d probably work.

He decided against it, and sighed.

“No.”

A brief moment’s pause. Aziraphale just nodded slightly, in relief or in something else, Crowley couldn’t tell.

“You’ve hurt people, though.”

_Ouch._

“Not… really, no.”

This time, Aziraphale leaned slightly back in apparent surprise. Crowley hands were sweating through the legs of those ridiculous trousers. For some reason, Aziraphale’s assumptions and reactions _stung_ in a fucking bizarre way that he really couldn’t make sense of. He felt the irrational need to explain himself.

“I, er, wasn’t that type. More the… networking type.”

“Hm. I see.”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, rubbing his hand over his chin. The quiet nearly approached an uncomfortable length, and Crowley bit his tongue to keep from trying to break it. 

“So. Your skillsets?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Skillsets, dear boy.” He twirled one hand purposefully. When Crowley just stared at him in confusion, he rolled his eyes and harrumphed.

“Really. If I am to hire you, I only think that it’s fair that I know what I am working with.”

_Oh. He’s giving me a job interview, and I’m bombing it._

Feeling stupid, Crowley straightened his back and cleared his throat.

“Like I said, networking. Administrative work. Hands-on organization. I can work a computer. Er,” he wracked his brain for the complete list of odd jobs he had before the mob, “Sales, dabbled in marketing and advertisement.”

“Gardening, don’t forget.”

“Er, that’s just a hobby.”

_The florist career dreams died long before the flowers in your vase, angel._

Aziraphale smiled fondly. Crowley’s stomach flipped.

_Stop calling him that before it sticks._


	4. Sharp Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the "Internalized Homophobia" tag is going to start kicking in. Warning for some mild homophobic language/slurs in this chapter.

After a whole lot of fussing for Crowley to have just one more bite or sip of this or that, Aziraphale somehow had Crowley drying and stacking dishes in his antique kitchen while he washed them in the sink. Crowley thought that he’d sooner take ballet classes than willingly live in a flat without a dishwasher, but somehow, he found himself not hating the comforting normalness of it. Aziraphale hummed and chatted cheerfully to fill the silence. 

By the time Crowley followed Aziraphale down to the shop, now brightly lit by day, his watched read half past eight. He had to admire how Aziraphale seemed to do everything on his own schedule. He just wished that schedule was a whole lot later in the day.

He was all-too awake now, though. In fact, his veins lit up with adrenaline.

Aziraphale had set him on some menial task and went on his merry way, disappearing and reappearing into the maze of shelves. Crowley was hyper-fixated on him, the door, the windows, his eyes and ears strung out taught and ready. No customers entered the shop, and that only made him compress further into himself. Time was a tight and suspended bowstring ready to snap.

“Crowley?”

“Whazzit?”

“I thought I asked you to dust the shelves.”

“I am!”

Aziraphale crossed his arms.

“You’re on edge that those hooligans are going to come around and find you again, aren’t you?”

“Er.” He balked at having to admit it.

The tinkling of the shop bell made him jump nearly a foot into the air, and he spun quickly to hide himself behind the shelf. Aziraphale gave him a lingering appraisal as he fought to get his heart rate under control.

“Relax. I’ll be right back.”

It wasn’t them. Obviously. The customer, a matronly woman in a peacoat, wandered over to the window display to poke around. Crowley watched surreptitiously as Aziraphale made his way over to the front desk and perched himself upon it, watching the lady with a shrewd and distrusting look in his eye.

_Jeez, does he think she’s going to steal something or what? I’m the actual criminal and he hasn’t looked that pinched at me yet. ___

__The lady picked up a book, walking over to Aziraphale._ _

__“Is this where I pay?”_ _

__“Yes, yes, it is. Cash only.”_ _

__“What? But I’ve only got my cards on me.”_ _

__“My sincerest apologies.” As fake-sweet as a diet soda._ _

__The lady grumbled, put the book back, and left. Crowley was completely baffled, trying to connect in his head the distant image he had always seen of the guy, cheerfully greeting newspaper vendors and small children on the street, to this new version of Aziraphale that had the customer service of a venomous toad._ _

__Aziraphale sighed, dusting himself off as he returned to Crowley’s hiding place._ _

__“Alright, now, where were we?”_ _

__“Er. Did you know her?”_ _

__“Hm? No, I didn’t.”_ _

“What was that about, then? Do you even _want_ good business? And for that matter, who the fresh hell only offers cash payment anymore?” 

__Aziraphale crossed his arms._ _

__“I would appreciate it if you watched your manners, Crowley.”_ _

__Right. His indignation made him forget his place._ _

__“And that’s not what you nor I should be concerned with right now. Before you so rudely changed the subject, we were addressing how you are afraid of those crooks returning here for you.”_ _

__“Afraid is such a strong word.”_ _

__“Crowley.”_ _

__“I’m a little bloody tense, fine. Sorry. Can you blame me?”_ _

__“Dear boy, of course not.” Aziraphale’s steely blue eyes softened, smoothing one hand over Crowley’s shoulder, who tried not to jump at the contact._ _

__“You’ve been through a dreadful ordeal, naturally you have a right to be afraid.”_ _

__“That’s not really… how I think.” He wanted to shy away from Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder, but couldn’t bring himself to do it._ _

__“What do you mean?”_ _

__“I mean that’s how I live- er, lived. I guess. With them. Can’t show weakness, and all that.” Crowley cringed as soon as it came out of his mouth._ _

_Ugh, why am I telling the angel this. He’s soft. Practically shits emotional well-being. He isn’t going to get how it is on the inside, what it does to you._

__“Oh, dear…” Aziraphale sighed. Sad, rueful._ _

__“Yes. Of course. I had very nearly forgotten.”_ _

__“Forgotten?”_ _

__“I understand how you feel. It breaks my heart.”_ _

Crowley was, once again, dumbfounded. Even more so when he saw Aziraphale’s face crumple and his shoulders slump, and he panicked, feeling such a powerful urge to _comfort_ him that he couldn’t stand it. 

__“Hey, erm, it’s okay, Aziraphale. Really, it’s nothin’ you don’t get used to.”_ _

__Aziraphale smiled sadly, dimples flashing._ _

__“Yes. It really is, isn’t it?”_ _

And oh, Crowley didn’t want to press anything by asking more questions, but _what the hell does that even mean-_

__“Quite alright. This time the blame is on me for getting us distracted, hm?” Aziraphale chortled. Crowley still watched him warily. He cleared his throat._ _

__“I have an idea that may help put your nerves at ease, dear boy.”_ _

__“Wha’dya mean?”_ _

__“I can put out the word to my fellows to be on high alert for that ilk, notify us if they see any sight of them poking about. I assure you that this area is quite well-surveyed.”_ _

__“Your ‘fellows?’”_ _

__Aziraphale bounced on his heels a bit, looking modestly gleeful._ _

__“I’ve got a network, you know. It does indeed have its benefits.”_ _

__Now it was Crowley’s turn to be skeptical. His mob senses were radiating bullshite._ _

“Knowing the area up and down was _my_ job. Would I know these ‘friends’ of yours?" 

__Aziraphale grinned wickedly at some private joke._ _

“Oh, probably not, dear boy. But they might know _you._ ” 

__“What? Come off it. How many of ‘em are there?”_ _

__“Just a couple. Really, mostly helmed by one, she does most of the useful work. The rest is more disparate pieces.”_ _

__Crowley squinted at him, trying to work out this puzzle._ _

__“Look, why don’t you just tell me what this is all about, instead of being all cryptic and mysterious?”_ _

__“Why, I rather thought that was your specialty.”_ _

__“It is, which is why I’m getting annoyed at you stealing my show.”_ _

__Aziraphale held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, still laughing to himself._ _

__“Truly, it’s nothing you must be suspicious of. I simply have a few fine folks that keep track of the goings-abouts and whatnot in the area, she tends to collect information about shady activities that is useful in certain circumstances. Much like this one, is it not?”_ _

__“What, just that easy?”_ _

__“Of course. Her and I are acquaintances, we share quite a few common interests.”_ _

__He scowled at that, feeling worse and worse about the idea._ _

__“What’s her name?”_ _

__“Ah, best not. I shall let her introduce herself on her own time – she believes quite strongly in the power of a name.”_ _

__That he could understand. Still didn’t like it, though._ _

__“She does already know you’re here, of course, so it’s probably only a matter of time before she comes by to visit.”_ _

__“You told her about me?”_ _

__“Mm, she is nosy and intuitive.”_ _

__“She won’t– this situation isn’t gonna get out to places it shouldn’t, right?”_ _

__“Relax, dear boy. I’ve decided to keep you safe and protected under my care, and that is what I very well intend to do.”_ _

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s cheek affectionately. His breath caught in his throat, along with the _Why?_

__“Alright. I’ll go phone her with the update, and be back in just a jiffy. You are not going to be keeping that standard of work if I’m extending my hand to you, my word.” He gestured meaningfully toward the half-dusted shelf._ _

__“Wh- I’m sorry.”_ _

__He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale had heard him mumble, he was already halfway to the office. The door closed decisively behind him, echoing through the now-empty shop._ _

__And, well, he couldn’t help himself. Old habits die hard._ _

__He waited ten long seconds before stalking forward, carefully avoiding brushing against any clutter, positioning himself artfully at an angle that wouldn’t immediately be visible should the office door open unexpectedly, before pressing an eager ear to the crack to listen._ _

__Unfortunately, the plush interior must have lent to good soundproofing, so it was fairly muffled. But he was trained, and knew just how to pick out sounds from behind a locked door. Once he zeroed in, he could hear Aziraphale talking plaintively._ _

__“Yes, you know the drill. And if you wouldn’t mind getting any urgent news straightaway to me, so I could have time to plan accordingly… Of course… Mm. I probably will need to, eventually, but that is less pressing. I’ll see how he acts.”_ _

__There were going to be imprints on the side of his cheek from how hard he was pressed to the frame. The open cut on his forehead was already starting to smart._ _

__“…Well. I rather couldn’t tell you the specifics myself, only that I became quite determined as soon as I saw him… I know. The boy’s been fairly honest, but he’s also as skittish as a sparrow… Oh, not quite that much. He gets mouthy, then clams up. It’s honestly a bit adorable…”_ _

Crowley’s breath left him in a silent _whoosh._ Suddenly, he found himself fighting to hear over the obnoxiously loud banging of his heart against his ribcage, echoing in thunder through his ear canals and spreading in fire across his cheeks. 

__“…Oh, I very well could… No, I’m not certain, but I have gotten a few signs. It’s well-buried…I know. I know. Of course not… I’ve yet to know. Right now, I haven’t figured out what he’s really good at, but I’ve got a few ideas up my sleeve… Yes. I feel as though I’m doing the right thing… No, no. The boy has lost it all. How could I not help? … Don’t be silly, he wouldn’t know what to do with it, he doesn’t seem to know a thing about literature.”_ _

__A light, airy peal of laughter._ _

__“When will you come by? … Well, you cannot fault me for trying, really, it’s ridiculous…Of course. My faith is with you, dear… I hope so, too. I have a good feeling, although perhaps I shouldn’t.”_ _

__Despite the numbness, he knew his cue. He crept back to his spot amongst the books as quickly as possible, entirely on autopilot._ _

__* * *_ _

__“I wonder if you’d be better at organization, dear. What do you think?”_ _

__After a few hours of intensely avoiding eye contact on Crowley’s part, Aziraphale disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with two massive sandwiches, piled high with the lettuce, cheese, meats, the works. Crowley decided to acquiesce and eat, also happily taking the second dose of pain pills he offered. It was, unfortunately, fucking delicious._ _

__“Whatever you think’s best, Aziraphale.”_ _

__Which was how he ended up at the back of the store, wearing a pair of rubber gloves (“These are rare collectibles, dear”) and carefully sorting the books into a system of author’s last name, year published, year collected, genre, and inventory number. Aziraphale watched over him like the world’s worst supervisor, flapping about indignantly when Crowley messed up, before settling and apologizing for getting worked up._ _

__Crowley was beginning to see where the cracks in the veneer were._ _

_Sure, the angel comes across as sweet and innocent at first…_

____

__Finally, after about an hour of a harsh learning curve, Aziraphale heard the shop bell and wandered toward the front, no doubt to intimidate another customer away from buying his wares. Crowley assumed he would come back, but after a bit, he settled into being left to his own devices. The sorting was rather easy now that he’d gotten the rhythm of it._ _

____

Which left him to his thoughts. 

____

__His stomach roiled._ _

____

__Aziraphale… Crowley wasn’t a damn fool. (Most of the time.) It was obvious from that phone call that the man… fancied him? Or at the very least, said he was adorable. The phrase, the idea, made his gut flip with the impossibility of it. Anthony J. Crowley + cuteness was an absurd concept, didn’t mix. Oil and water._ _

____

__Regardless, there was a lot of strange flirty banter about him in that conversation. Despite only hearing one half of it. He exhaled, shaky._ _

____

_Right. So. My instincts were, for once, correct. I read him right. Aziraphale’s into blokes._

____

_What am I gonna do about it?_

____

__The thought stopped him short. He took off his sunglasses, ran his fingers a bit too hard through his hair. Christ. Bloody fucking Christ._ _

____

_Nothing. You’re gonna do fucking nothing. Why are you even asking that like it’s a possibility?_

____

__If Aziraphale was letting him stay here to put moves on him, take advantage of him (the small voice in his head that protested, said that Aziraphale wasn’t the type, was being beaten ruthless with a baseball bat by the other parties of the debate), then it wasn’t anything new. Crowley could handle that. Shove him off as much as possible without being insubordinate, running away just enough to avoid getting in trouble._ _

____

‘Course, back in the family, superiors who made passes at boys never really lasted long, no matter how good they were. Everyone eventually got sick of taking orders from a fairy. Here, though? Aziraphale was his own boss. No one to stop him from making Crowley keep on _thinking_ about it- 

____

_He makes you uneasy because he’s too nice. He’s got secrets, and you don’t trust him. That’s all. Just add the fact that he’s a fuckin’ creep to the list._

____

__He suddenly realized that he’d paused in the middle of writing down an inventory number, and was biting his lip so hard that it threatened to break skin._ _

____

Why the hell did he feel _guilty_ for thinking about Aziraphale that way? Why couldn’t he force himself to believe those familiar, angry commands? 

____

Crowley suddenly felt overwhelmed, close to tears. He wanted something familiar. He wanted his apartment, to say hello and then _fuck you_ to his flourishing houseplants, flop onto the leather couch and watch brainless reality T.V. shows. He wanted to go back to when everything was easy, and he knew how to control himself. 

____

__Aziraphale, of course, chose that exact wrong moment to appear in the archway._ _

____

__“Oh, my, it looks like you got the hang of it, I’m quite pleased… Crowley?”_ _

____

__He quickly shoved the glasses back down his nose._ _

____

“What’s wrong, dear boy? Oh, I’m _dreadfully_ sorry with how harshly I treated you earlier, that was _truly_ unacceptable of me, honestly, I just so happen to be very fussy when it comes to my books and I didn’t _mean_ to snap at you, I hope you can forgive-” 

____

__“It’s. Not that, Ang- Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted his fussing without meaning to._ _

____

__“Ah. I see. Well, then.” Aziraphale smoothed his shirt down and took a seat, taking his glasses off and letting them hang on their chain, folding his hands together into a neat steeple._ _

____

__“Would you care to please tell me what’s upsetting you? I know that you’ve just had quite the tumultuous shift in your life. Truly, dear, I promise that I will not cast judgement, even if you feel like your emotions are… unwelcome. I want to help you. Sincerely.”_ _

____

__Crowley looked at him for a moment. And he couldn’t stop himself from believing every word as the most divine of law._ _

____

__“I just… I miss my stuff. Sorry. I know that sounds, I dunno, ungrateful or silly or whatever. I’ll get over it. I’m just… not used to this. Haven’t processed any of it yet.”_ _

____

It was very much panicking him how much _truth_ was coming out of his mouth, but it just kept on _going._

____

__“I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”_ _

____

_Stop the honesty hour NOW, before it goes too far._

____

__“Oh, Crowley. All of that is so perfectly reasonable – of course you’re upset. If you would just be honest like this with how you’re feeling, I can better understand how to help you, dear.”_ _

____

__“Er. Right.”_ _

____

__“Hm, let’s see here. You miss your ‘stuff’? What kind of ‘stuff’ do you mean?” Aziraphale asked._ _

____

__“Uh… well. My plants, to be honest. They’re… gonna die without me. I know I’m gonna miss my T.V., as well. Er, it’s stupid. I know I’ve only been here for a day.”_ _

____

__“But it’s rather been one hell of a day, hasn’t it?”_ _

____

__The use of profanity, however mild, gave Crowley pause, jolting him a bit out of his sudden funk. Aziraphale just smiled and winked, over-exaggerated and not at all smooth._ _

____

__Crowley snorted and managed to laugh, just a little._ _

____

__“In all seriousness, dear boy. I know that things look dire right now, but there are solutions on their way. Everything will work out swimmingly in the end. I promise.”_ _

____

__Aziraphale stood, offering a hand out. After a small hesitation, Crowley took it and was pulled to his feet._ _

____

__“There we are. Now, what do you say I close up early, and we head up to have a lovely dinner upstairs? I could open a bottle of wine.”_ _

____

_That_ piqued Crowley’s interest. 

____

__“Yeah. Yes. That sounds bloody fantastic.”_ _

____


	5. Evening Conversations

Crowley was trying to figure out where he had lost control of the situation.

He was sat with his spindly legs bunched around him, curled up comfortably in the corner of Aziraphale’s squishy suede couch, with his borrowed trouser legs rolled up and a half-drunk glass of red wine in one hand. His head was a pleasant, warm mush. There were two empty bottles on the table and one half-empty one in Aziraphale's hand. He had no idea how much time had passed since they washed the dinner dishes side-by-side, only that he felt inexplicably _content_ with the man sitting next to him.

“Look- look, all ‘m sssaying is… is that…” He waved his hand around. His words tumbled out and immediately lost track, like a fat bumblebee falling off a flower.

“Er, what was I talking about?”

“I think it was something about aquariums, dear.” Aziraphale had his eyes closed, a dreamy expression on his face. He hiccupped and giggled. He sure giggled a lot when he was drunk.

“Oh, yeah! So, aquariums, yeah? I think.” Crowley took another hearty sip. “I think there should be one closer to here. ‘Cause sometimes, sometimes, I just wanna look at some fish sometimes, alright? I think it’s my right, as a citizen.”

“Hmm. I’ve never been to an aquarium.”

Crowley gasped, leaning forward, and set his wine glass down on the coffee table. 

“Whaaat? You should. It’s good fun. Peaceful, ‘nd all that.”

“I bet it is. It’s been, oh, a long time since I’ve seen the ocean.”

“You ever been to a beach? Like a tropical one, in Hawaii or Australia or something.”

“I have.” Aziraphale smacked his lips a little, his forehead crinkling in thought. Crowley watched his laughter lines thrown into relief in the cozy lamplight. “I used to travel quite a lot for work. How ‘bout you?”

“Haven’t. Only the cold ones that’re ugly and shite…” 

Crowley was suddenly hit with a great epiphany. He jumped up, startling Aziraphale and sending his wine nearly sloshing over the rim of his glass.

“Hey! We should play Never Have I Ever!”

“Good Heavens, you nearly made me spill. What are you talking about?”

Crowley was distracted by how endearing Aziraphale looked, rumpled and stern. He cleared his throat and forged on.

“’S a drinking game. Surely you’ve played it before – actually, er, I don’t know, might be too young for you. I mean, maybe you have? College? Anyway, it’s a drinking game. How you play is you say a thing that you’ve never done before, like…”

He thought for a moment, wracking his brain.

“Never have I ever… gotten an A on a test!”

Crowley pointed triumphantly at Aziraphale.

“And then, you have to drink if you’ve done that thing. And so on, ‘n so forth. Then you think of the next one.”

Aziraphale raised his glass to his lips, pulling away with a hearty smack. Crowley felt accomplished – obviously, Mr. Erudite had gotten good marks.

“Sounds like good fun,” Aziraphale slurred just slightly, grinning. “Alright. Alright. Never have I ever… hm. Never have I ever… gotten my driver’s license?”

Crowley gasped.

“Wha? Really? Shit-” He drank. “Bugger, m’gonna have to get my car eventually. Don’t want her getting fucked up, you know?”

“You have a car, dear?”

“Mm, my Bentley. I love driving… don’t know how people can get around usin’ other stuff.” He sighed. Aziraphale smiled at him.

“It’s good to walk sometimes, you know. Or I simply rely on other people.”

“Yeah?” Crowley blinked. “I’ll give you a ride, anytime.”

Aziraphale’s lips parted, and he made a questioning noise at the back of his throat.

“I mean, it’sss the least I could do, what with you, y’know, doin’ me a favor ‘nd all that… lettin’ me stay here. For the time being, that's all,” he stammered. 

Aziraphale just lolled his head to the back of the sofa and laughed lazily. Crowley, for some reason, couldn’t bring himself to actually feel anything but a slow, pleasant stirring, like syrup or molasses.

“Yeah. Yes, dear, maybe… maybe I’d let you. ‘Give me a ride,’ as it were.” Aziraphale gestured with air quotes, looking dreamily up at the ceiling. His cheeks were quite pink. It showed, what with him being so fair.

Crowley felt so warm. So warm.

It was his turn. He cleared his throat, and it vibrated throughout his entire body.

“Hrm. Never have I ever read a book longer than, er, maybe 100 pages?”

Aziraphale’s neck snapped back into place and looked _so_ scandalized that it was actually hilarious. Crowley lost it, coughing and hurriedly setting down his glass before cackling unattractively into the space between his knees, chest heaving.

“Hf- Your- face- oh my God-”

“How could you have made it this far? Wh- How?”

“Wh’dya mean?” Crowley straightened up, still grinning.

“How, how is that even possible, dear boy? How’d you graduate?”  
\  
“How do you know I did?” He paused for dramatic effect. “Just kidding. Cliffsnotes, ever heard of ‘em, old man?”

“You think I’m old?”

“Uh. Hm. Actually not sure on that one. You act old.”

“Just for fun, why don’t you… guess how old you think I am.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and smirked. Crowley tugged his collar away from his neck.

“Ummm.” He sifted through the viscous soup that his critical thinking skills had turned into for an acceptable answer. “Forty?”

“Nope.”

“Higher or lower?”

“Lower.”

“How old are you?”

“You don’t get to know. You guessed wrong.” Aziraphale giggled maniacally.

“What? What’re you makin’ up rules for?”

“I’m great at making up rules.” He looked smug at some private joke. Crowley scoffed, peeved at the loss.

“Guess my age then.”

“Hm. Not a day over…”

Crowley crossed his arms and grinned. There was no way.

“… 32?”

He gaped.

“Wha- How?”

“Lucky guess, dear boy.” Aziraphale winked at him, obviously pleased with himself. “And let’s see. It’s, wait, my turn, right?”

“I, er, don’t remember. Let’s say yeah.”

“Hrm…” There was a moment where Aziraphale topped off his glass, fumbling just a little. Crowley watched his hands. 

“I really can’t think of anything.”

“Oh come on, try me, surely you can think of something that you think I’ve done that you haven’t?” Crowley laughed, then paused when he saw the unreadable expression on Aziraphale’s face.

“I really can’t, ‘s the thing, dear boy. Does that mean I lose?”

“Nah, I think you lose when you pass out.”

“Well, it is late, maybe we should call it a night.”

“Oh, come on, please, it’s only-” Crowley swiveled and craned his neck to look at the antique grandfather clock in the corner and took an embarrassingly long time to figure out the Roman numerals, “-it’s barely even 10! We could at least finish the bottle.”

Aziraphale smiled endearingly. “Alright, dear. Hm.” He tapped his chin a little. Crowley squinted at him.

“Never have I ever… had a, oh, what are they called? A ‘one-night stand.’ Is that right?”

“Er, yeah, that’s right.” Crowley swallowed hard.

_On your guard._

“I haven’t.” Crowley admitted.

“Really?”

“D-does that surprise you?”

Aziraphale appraised him casually. “Not really.”

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“Should I be insulted?”

“No!” He looked chagrined. “I mean, would you take that sort of thing as an insult?”

Crowley stared down at his borrowed pants.

“…No, I guess not.”

Aziraphale wet his lips with his tongue. “Good, then.” Drank more. Crowley followed, unintentionally chugging a bit when he realized he had been staring at Aziraphale’s leg, right there in front of him. He found himself reaching out to it, patting his knee.

_When did we get close enough to touch each other?_

Crowley recoiled immediately. There were words already halfway out of his mouth before he realized he had opened it.

“Never have I ever dated anyone.”

There was a pause. Crowley began to sweat profusely and drained his glass. This was when he realized he was far drunker than he meant to be.

“…Well. Never, dear?” Aziraphale also sounded very, very drunk. Surprised. Soft. Crowley couldn’t look at him.

“I’m- I ssshould go to bed.” 

_Why didn’t you take the damn chance when he offered-_

“Crowley, I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that- oh, are you alright?”

Crowley had stood suddenly and the wound on his side smarted, colliding with the horrible sickening dizziness and making him stumble. His glasses fell off, bouncing once on the carpet.

“Oh, no, dear, here.” Aziraphale stood on wobbly feet and Crowley felt his hand on his back, then circling his wrists, pulling him upright. They swayed together a moment. 

“Are you okay?”

“’Sss fine. Ang- Aziraphale. Sorry.”

“Dear boy…”

Crowley’s eyes focused. In their almost-embrace, Crowley’s short, wine-flavored breaths puffed against Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale’s pupils were wide enough to fall into. Crowley couldn’t move. He was combusting with heat, the dry, smouldering kind that filled his brain with ashes. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… well, I…” Aziraphale was… conflicted?

Crowley tracked the movements of Aziraphale’s mouth. He bowed his head and leaned until his forehead was pressed against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale’s arms came up, surrounding him.

“D’you- you drank, right?”

“What?”

“For my question, right?”

“Oh, well, no. But I mean, I have. Dated.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded a million miles away. Crowley gathered his wits, peeling himself off the other man. His face was… something, when he looked at it, wincing and steadying his stance.

“Right. That’sss… cool. Interesting. ‘Course.”

“You look a mess. Are you a lightweight, dear?”

“Psh. _You_ look a mess.”

“We should go to bed. Another day… let’s finish the game. I had fun.”

“I overshare when I’m drunk. Now you know too much, ‘nd I gotta kill you.”

Aziraphale laughed, and it was so loud it was nearly booming. He was holding out his hand, Crowley realized. He took it.

His head was empty. He didn’t search for shame as Aziraphale led him upstairs, holding hands all the way. It should have frightened him. He felt the blush, but not the pain.

He was in a bed. Spinning. He fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse, except that writer's block is a bitch. Have some gay idiots being wasted together! I promise a longer chapter is on its way.


	6. Building Blocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a bit with writing this chapter. One thing's for certain: big fat tone shift from the previous update! Note the updated tags in effect.

Crowley woke blearily to a confusing blend of _ow, fuck, ow,_ and _oh yes, this bed is REALLY comfy, five more minutes._

The worst offenders were the cut on his cheek, throbbing like an absolute bitch against a soft, downy pillow that smelled wonderful, as well as the smarting gash on his sore ribs, snuggled into a plush mattress big enough for his limbs to sprawl out in every direction. His mouth was dry and shriveled. He groaned quietly into his pillow and welcomed the blissful unconsciousness that beckoned him back to safety.

That was, until he heard an echo of the same groan next to him. The bed shifted slightly, springs creaking, and Crowley’s hand slipped off the other hand it had been resting on and landed on the quilt.

_Oh, no._

Crowley’s eyes shot open. It was just light enough in the room for him to make out the shape of Aziraphale, fast asleep next to him. Who, after finishing rolling over, settled back into deep, steady breathing.

He was in _Aziraphale’s bed._ In _Aziraphale’s room._ He had no idea what time it was, but judging from the greying sky visible through one drawn window, he had _slept there all night, holding his hand._

Crowley had no idea how heavy of a sleeper Aziraphale was, but right now, getting out of this room without him waking was more important than oxygen.

Ignoring the protest of his aching everything, Crowley carefully, _carefully_ slid out from the covers and stood. Aziraphale did not stir. 

Crowley’s survival instincts allowed him to completely shift into autopilot. 

_Escape now. Panic later._

He did a quick inventory of the room. The nightstand on the side of the bed where Crowley had been sleeping had a glass of water and a bottle of pain pills set on it, as well as an ancient looking analogue clock. He squinted at the Roman Numerals for too long, before deciphering it to be half-past 5 in the morning. A wave of Déjà vu followed.

_Does everything in this flat have to be a damn antique?_

Whatever. He prayed to whoever was listening a quiet thanks for waking him up at this obscene hour instead of at noon like his body usually demanded.

Crowley was also bare-chested, and without much difficulty he spotted the offensive lilac sweater strewn across the floor. He was still wearing the borrowed trousers, and felt more grateful than he could have ever thought possible for that. He picked up the bottle and the glass as delicately as if he were holding a live grenade and crept silently around the foot of the bed toward the door, past the shape of Aziraphale.

But. Well.

Something made him stop halfway to the door. His blasted curiosity reared its ugly head once again.

_What are you doing? He’s an early bird, get out of here before he wakes up!_

He couldn’t. Something stronger than his flight instincts compelled him to turn around, before carefully padding on tiptoes closer to the oh-so-peacefully sleeping other man.

Crowley got a closer look, and with a jolt of his fragile heart, saw a pale, bare shoulder peeking over the blanket he was curled under. Aziraphale must have shed his shirt, too. His face was smooth and relaxed, his cupid-bow lips were parted slightly, and his curls were a mussed halo on the pillow he was partially smushed into. His breathing was heavy – almost a snore.

Crowley stood there for too long. 

He looked at the other nightstand, familiar from his brief peek into the room yesterday – nothing on it but piles of books. Aziraphale had been just as drunk as Crowley. He had drank the same amount, exactly. Crowley knew how to keep track of these things. Aziraphale may have had more meat on his bones to absorb it, may have been able to talk freely without embarrassing speech impediments, may not have overshared (oh God) to the point Crowley had – but he most certainly had not been sober. They were both wasted last night.

And yet Aziraphale had been sure to leave a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers on Crowley’s nightstand.

His hands shook, just slightly, as he opened the lid and used his skinny finger to carefully extract two pills. Then, after watching the slope of Aziraphale’s back rise and fall for a moment, a third. He gingerly nudged _Paradise Lost_ to the side, terrified of ruining something so well-loved, and placed the pills and the glass of water on the only exposed stretch of wood. 

Crowley padded toward the door with the bottle in his hands. He allowed himself one more peek that he didn’t deserve at Aziraphale’s slack cheeks, the absurd tangle of his blond eyelashes against them. 

He grabbed the doorknob too quickly, and the distinct _creak_ of aging door hinges echoed through the room.

Just like that, he was back on autopilot, sliding through the open crack and closing the door behind him without looking back. He bolted down the hall as silently as he could and was behind his own door that wasn’t his before he could take another breath, and exhaled desperately into the stagnant darkness. He winced at the pain that was still demanding his attention and getting worse. He stumbled over to the sink, clumsily dumping pills into his palm and tossing them down his throat, immediately retching and turning on the faucet to desperately gulp at the stream like a dying animal for the second night in a row. When he emerged, chest heaving and mouth wet, he pressed the light switch. Before hissing and slamming his hand back down on it. The memory of his reflection burned as he stared at his outline in the dark.

Crowley in the mirror had managed to be sallow, despite the olive skin. Sickly. Gaunt. The cuts on his forehead and cheek were ugly and inflamed, his lips cracked and dripping with musty tap water, dark purple bags underneath both eyes. Which were crazed, wild, a bright and burning yellow that he could swear nearly glowed in the dark at him. 

He looked pathetic, afraid and desperate. He didn’t know what _for_ and it pissed him off.

Turning away and fumbling in the dark to turn on the shower, Crowley tossed his pants and trousers haphazardly across the floor. After taking a much-needed piss, he started removing the smaller bandages strewn around his body. There was a wince here and there, but it wasn’t so bad. He stacked them on the vanity, vowing to look for a wastebasket later. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and started to disassemble the gauze on his side as gingerly as he could without properly seeing what he was doing. It stuck a few times to the wound, making him sink his teeth into his tongue. Finally, he piled the final stretch of dark-stained cloth on the counter and sighed, shoulders sagging.

He tested the running shower water with a tentative hand. Abysmal water pressure, and barely warm. However, he thought as he braced himself, what would have normally been cause for outrage and complaining was currently what he needed to get through this. He held his breath and stepped in. 

It was agony, of course. Crowley braced himself against the tile, rigid as a board as the gentle running water slowly rubbed his exposed cuts raw and clean. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to see the clear water turning black as it ran down his legs and into the drain. He wasn’t stupid enough to touch any of the wounds and fuck something up, he just waited what seemed like forever (but was probably more like five minutes) for the water to run mostly clean. There weren’t any toiletries, naturally, so Crowley scrubbed at his hair, armpits, and crotch as best he could with just water. The latter he did as quickly and impersonally as possible. Now that the worst of the pain was starting to subside, that left room for the dangerous thoughts he was avoiding to try and demand his attention again.

_Angel. I wonder if he really woke up._

_And how much he’ll remember from last night._

Crowley turned the water off, now shivering violently. He reached for a towel that obviously wasn’t there, swore audibly, and stepped out of the shower dripping wet and covered in goosebumps.

_Didn’t he say something about extra blankets in the closet?_

He trailed water across the cluttered floor of the room, uncaring, wrenching open the only other door and clawing desperately through the neat folded cloth for something warm that wasn’t light enough to get bloodstained. The tremors wracking him almost made it hard to wrap himself in the only black one he found. He dried off poorly, barely even feeling the pain when he patted his stomach through the chattering teeth.

Crowley collapsed in a heap, clutching the blanket like a lifeline. He wanted to be angry at himself, but it fizzled into nothing. He was too tired. He didn’t even know if he could make it to the bed.

_Aziraphale wouldn’t be happy with you if he found you like this, you fucking idiot._

He struggled to his feet. After a Herculean effort, he let the now-damp blanket fall away from his body. He was, in fact, still clammy, and he didn’t care that he wasn’t soaked anymore, he only cared about getting underneath as much fabric as humanely possible, immediately. He dragged the remaining four dry blankets to the bed and made a heaping nest, wriggling underneath and curling into a tight ball. He was asleep before he could even close his eyes.

_With Beelzebub, you always knew when you messed up._

_“I saw the file on the group home. Why are we roughing up the kids? They’re just bloody kids, haven’t they been through enough? Knock it off and take the funds from somewhere else if you don’t want them to start snitching on the streets ‘cause they’re scared of us.”_

_Dead silence. Dagon paused in the middle of lighting his cigarette, looking over at Beelzebub across the desk._

_Beelzebub stood up._

_Crowley stepped backward._

_“Since you’ve been so kind, Crowley, to fucking come in here in the middle of a bloody meeting to announce that you can’t do your imbecile job right anymore. Why don’t I replace you with one of those stupid fucking kids you’re so in love with? At least they know how to keep. their. damn. mouths. shut.”_

_This was his chance to grovel. Beelzebub always gave a warning shot before it was game over._

_“I wouldn’t if I were you. You’d get shoved into a locker in a heartbeat.”_

_And just like that, Dagon pulled a knife and Crowley ran._

_Five years of cushy desk work and he blew it for those stupid orphans he thought bitterly as Hastur and Ligur joined in as well as the tiny scrap of a newbie that was going to be allowed to join if he proved his worth by breaking enough of Crowley’s bones but he was clever from unwillingly watching them do their dirty work over the years and slid through the gaps between them right as Dagon was about to pull the cuffs out and he ran out of that office building the one that people give wide berths even though it looks nice enough to the unknowing passerby because it just smells wrong even from the sidewalk and as he ran he thought about the pictures of the tired old woman who owned that stupid group home and hoped she was as least fucking nice to those kids now that he was going to die for them –_

_His running slowed and then stopped. He wasn’t being chased by knives and men anymore but just a single man and he was still running, just failing to get away in time, and his throat was closing up in fear as Dagon cornered him in that one shadowy secluded corner of the drop-off hallway where no one spent more than a second in otherwise you were asking for trouble and Dagon says so while leering with outstretched hands asking Crowley if he knows how much he looks like a good little pillow biter in those tight pants and that all the boys talk behind his back about how they know he’s flaming because he doesn’t bother to fuck girls and drinks wine instead of beer and paints his nails black sometimes and Crowley is just shaking his head and hurrying off before those leering hands can make contact with any part of him and hoping that this will be like last time and someone else will make Dagon disappear first so Crowley doesn’t have to do anything about it and because it never ends up happening he thinks that maybe Beelzebub didn’t care about any of the complaints because Dagon’s always been his favorite unlike those other guys so what if he was_

_Someone’s favorite. Someone’s favorite person. Aziraphale, holding him and telling him it’s okay he’s waited this long because your Angel is here now and has been waiting all this time and Crowley vows to be in his debt forever until the end of time for it and to do anything he says at all if only that Angel would love him_

_He’s running again, trying desperately to catch up to the blinding light that’s just out of reach as he runs through stacks of books and his legs are wobbly and weak because he keeps slipping on the blood that’s pouring out of his chest and he’d beg his Angel to come back if he could but every time he opens his mouth he hears his father’s voice come out and he’s terrified of the Angel hearing that but he knows he will anyway because it’s so loud and it’s booming throughout the endless labyrinth of books screaming that Crowley is going to have a man’s job in the family or he can get out of his fucking sight forever until he decides to stop being a fairy_

_I’m not I’m not I’m not but even so, he already feels the wings stretch out from his shoulder blades with no way to stop them because he’s close enough to see the Angel reach out for his hand and the men with knives are behind him and they’re catching up –_

Crowley seizes, his body trying to spasm against the prison of blankets around him as he wakes with a gasp. 

Heart thundering against his ribs, his eyes take in the startled visage of Aziraphale hovering above his face, one outstretched hand quickly drawn away as Crowley struggles to breath.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, did I frighten you? Are you alright?”

Dazed from waking up so quickly, Crowley struggles to understand. Whatever he had been dreaming about had disappeared into something formless as quick as candy floss dipped in water. He could only vaguely identify that bad memories had formed the crux of it, but that didn’t quite make sense, because the feeling of fresh, abject terror that still lingered in his body had the distinct flavor of something unknown.

“Ergh. M’fine. Dream.” 

He yawns. He feels absolutely fucking hideous.

Aziraphale dithers about, wringing his hands. Crowley focuses enough to see that he’s fresh-faced, dressed.

The image of Aziraphale when he _wasn’t_ fresh-faced and dressed bursts through the carefully paved brick wall in Crowley’s mind. His face heats. He remembers that he’s naked under these sheets. His face heats even more. He flips over voraciously, pulling the sheets with him as he stares at the wall. It hurts like an absolute bitch.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles. Aziraphale stops dithering, he can hear it. Crowley can feel those blue eyes zeroing in.

“Why, Crowley, whatever are _you_ sorry for?”

“You know… everything. Last night. I got, uh, out of hand. Won’t happen again.”

“Oh, dear. I rather thought last night was an all-around pleasant night between friends. What happened that you think got so ‘out of hand’?”

Aziraphale’s tone was innocently confused, which completely derailed Crowley’s shaky train of thought. 

_Is he lying? What’s his game?_

_I’d look him in the eye to try and see, but at this moment, I’d also rather jump off a bridge than make eye contact with him._

“But- I slept in your bed!”

“You seem to be under the false assumption that if you were to try to sleep in my bed when I didn’t want you there, that you wouldn’t have ended up anywhere else but the gutter outside. Crowley,” the bed groaned as the weight of Aziraphale settled near Crowley’s feet, “Perhaps the alcohol clouded your memory, because when you followed me to bed, I was nothing but pleased. I was also drunk, of course, but we were just sleeping. It’s not as if anything _scandalous_ happened.”

Crowley fidgeted, thinking of how his hand had rested in Aziraphale’s all night.

“The only cause for me to be cross with you was when I woke up and you were gone. I feared the worst, that you had run off, and violated my trust. And I feel heinous about that, because when I stormed in here to see if you had left a trace, I found a blood stained shower, a sink full of bloody bandages, blood all over the floor, a bloody blanket, and you, shivering in your sleep under five quilts. I was worried _sick!_ What in the _heavens_ happened?”

Ah, the consequences he _hadn’t_ thought about.

“Oh. Well. You see. I needed a shower, and there was no towel anywhere… and I ended up, uh, I get cold really easily.”

_Nice going, Crowley. World’s finest hungover walk of shame._

“You most likely exacerbated every single one of your injuries because you wanted a shower.”

“When you put it that way-”

“Crowley. Tell the truth. Do you truly think that either of us did anything bad or wrong last night? Think about it. Did I ever do something you didn’t want?”

There was a pregnant pause, where Crowley thought of every excuse in the universe that he could use to get out of answering.

When he found none that Aziraphale would accept, he said in an almost-whisper, “I guess not.”

“Good. Now, then, why are you having such a strong reaction?”

_What am I supposed to do, here? Answer him? Just like that? That easily?_

_Angel, how am I supposed to deal with you?_

“Alright, fine. I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. Didn’t want you to think I was coming on too fast – er, scratch that, that came out wrong, that’s not what I meant at all. I just lost my cool, okay? Don’t want you to think I’m… weird. Or some kind of creep.”

“About what, exactly?”

“You _know_ what I’m talking about, Ang- Aziraphale, don’t act like you don’t. The- the- saying that I’ve, y’know, that I’ve never _been_ with anyone, I don’t even know why I said it, I’ve never told anyone that before and I’ve only known you for two days… and then, well, the, you know, I got kinda… sloppy, and then I just get into your bed and _sleep_ in it like that’s just cheerio and swell, and I didn’t want you to wake up to the bloody ex-mobster that’s squatting in your flat and bleeding all over everything you own all cozied up to you like that’s an okay thing to do,” Crowley rambles, half-heated and losing more and more steam.

He trails off into nothing when he realizes that even _he_ isn’t sure what he’s talking about anymore.

When Aziraphale reaches across the bed and gently pushes on his shoulder, Crowley rolls over without resistance to gaze blearily at him. Aziraphale’s expression is equal parts sad and stern.

“Crowley, dear boy, you’re allowed to enjoy things. You deserve to, even. At the end of the day, isn’t life about experiencing pleasure? Enjoying the time you spend with others, whether that be drinking on a couch or sleeping in a bed … Hm, there’s a poem that would just be perfect for this, what was it called again? It had ‘geese’ in the title, it’s on the tip of my tongue-”

“You called us ‘friends.’ Earlier. I’ve never had a friend before.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Well. That certainly does explain almost everything you’ve said and done in the past two days.”

“Ha, ha. Are you very well done?”

“I’m serious, though. At a certain point, since we are going to be stuck with one another for the foreseeable future, it simply makes sense to be friends.”

“I want to be friends. But you don’t trust me.”

“Yet,” Aziraphale says, smiling, like he’s teasing. Crowley doesn’t really know what he should think. Or what he wants to think, what he’s allowed to think, or what he actually is thinking. 

He thinks he wants that trust, though. He wants it dearly.

Crowley’s heart flipped in his chest a little. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“You look rather ill. Is it from the wine or the bare minimum amount of emotional intimacy?”

That forces a laugh out of him, which hurts, a lot. He curls over onto his side again.

“’Dunno. I didn’t puke or anything. I’m just tired.”

“You’re practically drowning in sweat, dear, can I take some of these blankets off you?”

“But I’m cold.”

He feels weight leaving him, and makes a weak noise of protest. 

Aziraphale gasps. Crowley is already half-asleep.

“You- you’ve bled through the comforter.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s probably not good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i KNOW the rituals are intricate. i KNOW
> 
> (fifty bonus points to the english major nerd who identifies what poem aziraphale is referencing)


	7. Planting Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really just turned into "the anathema chapter" without my consent lmao  
> Also, I had to do some research on DIY blood transfusions, but I'm not a doctor so if i got something wrong don't @ me!

“Crowley. Crowley, stay awake for me. This is important.”

Rapid little slaps on his cheek. They hurt.

“Nrgh.”

“Do you know what your blood type is?”

“O+.”

A little rub on the cheek, like an apology. 

Crowley drifted away, only faintly aware of his body being moved and adjusted. Some time passed that could have minutes or hours. Lights danced around behind his eyelids that got louder and turned into voices.

“I came here as fast as I could, how’s he doing?” An unfamiliar female voice, with an American accent, of all things.

“Stable, but we need to hurry. I already have him sterilized.”

“Fine, here.”

Rustling. Crowley’s left arm felt fuzzy and tight.

“I hope for his sake that he wasn’t delirious about knowing his blood type.”

“I didn’t very well have much of a choice not to trust him. Besides, well… he would know from experience.”

“Makes sense.”

“Now, shall I bother asking what connections you pulled to get your hands on this?”

“No need. I got it legally and consensually.”

“Very well. Do please stick around, you know where the drinks are. I’m going to clean him up.”

“Thanks. Do you think he’ll wake up soon? We might as well meet.”

“I hope so, but I don’t know how sound of mind he’ll be.”

“His aura is strong. He’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise, and then there was the sound of footsteps and faint clattering. Crowley felt the now-familiar gentle touch of Aziraphale begin to work upon his numb torso.

It was quiet. Crowley was beginning to feel less and less out of it, probably thanks to the pressure at the crook of his elbow. He was still too tired to move or think. He just lied there and let himself feel Aziraphale dress each of his wounds, listening to his steady breathing. 

A hesitant touch on his cheek made his eyelids flutter open. Aziraphale was bent over him, a sight that reminded Crowley so much of the first time the other man had helped him that first night in his office that it startled him when Aziraphale quickly drew back, clear chagrin on his face.

_Right. Of course. It’s what I deserve._

“Don’t move, dear,” was all Aziraphale said.

Crowley blinked and winced, eyes protesting at the brightness of the room.

“Glasses?” he croaked.

“Here.” Aziraphale produced them from somewhere, carefully sliding them onto his face.

Crowley craned his neck best he could to scope where he was. It was the dining room table, the chandelier above brightly illuminating his newly-bandaged form. He realized with a start that someone- Aziraphale- had dressed him in a pair of soft, loose grey pajama pants.

_I had gotten into bed naked._

Cringing, he focused instead on the setup next to him. What looked like a former lamp had been stripped of its shade and lightbulb, with a twisted wire piece (was that a clothing hanger?) affixed and bent at both sides. Hanging off the makeshift hooks was an unmarked medical bag of blood and a medical bag of clear fluid, labelled “saline” in neat handwriting. They both ran into a tube, an unfamiliar connecting device, and into the IV in his arm vein, taped thoroughly.

“I’d, er, be worried about my safety if I wasn’t so grateful to not be in a hospital.”

Aziraphale smiled tightly at that.

“I know. We did the best we could with what I had.”

"How’d you-"

“Take these before you start asking questions.”

Crowley obediently dry-swallowed the number of pills that Aziraphale unceremoniously pressed to his lips before he could reach down and produce a bottle of water. He gently tilted it, just waterfalling the liquid into his cracked mouth.

“He’s up?”

An unfamiliar face appeared at the edge of his vision. She was a young woman with long, dark hair and round glasses resting atop a symmetrical face with high cheekbones. The stranger had a distinctly erudite air about her, wearing a neat blue peacoat and a fascinated, open expression.

“Er.” Crowley’s guard slammed back upward.

Aziraphale got up and retrieved a throw pillow from the couch, easing Crowley to sit up and propping it underneath him. He was able to slightly lean forward, facing the woman with a suspicious glare. Aziraphale sat back down, at ease and apparently satisfied, and sipped from a steaming mug the woman handed to him without taking her eyes off Crowley.

“Crowley. While these are not the circumstances I had hoped for this conversation, I would like for you to meet my acquaintance I told you about before. Anathema?”

The person, Anathema, smiled and extended a well-groomed hand with long black nails.

“Anthony Crowley. My name is Anathema Device. I’ve heard so much about you, it’s nice to finally meet.”

It was strange – he was used to the American accents of brusque, sloppy gangsters with pot bellies and cigarettes, but not at all the crisp, articulate voice that nonetheless betrayed a bright curiosity. The corner of a book and a pencil stuck out of one of her large pockets. He could immediately see how she would get along with Aziraphale.

Scowling, Crowley took her hand and shook as firm as he dared with his compromised position. Seemingly unperturbed, she took a drink from the glass of what looked like lemonade in her other hand.

When Crowley said nothing in response, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh. Er, much better, actually.”

Crowley hesitated, torn for a moment between not wanting to show weakness in front of the stranger and wanting Aziraphale to be pleased with him. The latter desire won.

“…Thank you. Once again, Aziraphale.”

He smiled fondly at Crowley, and he fought against the squirming delight in his stomach. He quickly changed the subject.

“I’ll leave the first aid to you from now on, I think.” 

“You’d _better._ ”

“Right. Where in the hell did you get all this equipment, actually?”

“I already had all of this in my flat. Save for the blood. The er, rigging had to be a bit of a DIY, I’m afraid.”

Crowley stared at him.

“You said you weren’t a doctor anymore.”

“I’m not. However, keeping a few certain bits and bobbles around the place have turned out to be quite convenient for certain circumstances, haven’t they, Crowley?”

He looked from Aziraphale’s innocent smile over to the tubing apparatus fixed to his arm. Nothing looked short of hospital grade.

“In any case, I’d better switch you from the IV and onto the next phase of your treatment: a tall glass of water and a hearty brunch.”

“Fine. Could I please get a shirt? It’s bloody cold in here.” It was, but that was secondary to the discomfort of Anathema scrutinizing his weakened and banged-up body on full display.

“Of course. Hm, you certainly weren’t lying when you said you got cold easy. I don’t blame you, skinny boy. Anathema? Would you be a dear and fetch us a sweater from my wardrobe?” 

Aziraphale said this without looking up, his focus on carefully sliding the needle out of Crowley’s arm and quickly covering the puncture with a cotton ball.

The familiarity with which he spoke to her pinched worse.

“Sure thing,” she called easily, already gone from the room. Aziraphale finished wrapping the gauze tape and tied it off. Crowley swung his legs around the table and stood up.

“Easy, dear.”

“I’m fine. Never been better. Don't even feel hungover anymore.”

“Ah, yes, that’d be the saline.”

“What about you? Do you get hangovers?”

“Only rarely. But you happened to leave me a fix anyway, didn’t you, dear?”

Crowley flushed, crossing his arms and looking at the window across the room.

“’S nothing. Least I could do.”

“Well. I appreciated it, nonetheless.” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. 

“Do you… want help? Cooking?”

“No, thank you. I’m afraid I get awfully picky when I’m in the kitchen, I would most likely end up hurting your feelings.”

Crowley laughed. “Not possible.”

“Hm. Isn’t it?”

“ _No._ ”

Aziraphale fixed him with an indulgent look. 

“Very well. I suppose you could come help me peel some potatoes if you wouldn’t mind terribly.”

Anathema bounded into the room then, breaking the strange tension by triumphantly holding up a chunky grey sweater.

“Here you go. Aziraphale, I got one of your older ones in case he starts bleeding again.”

“Good thinking, dear, thank you,” Aziraphale called from in front of the open fridge.

Crowley’s scowl returned with a vengeance. 

_How long have these two bloody well known each other?_

He snatched the sweater out of her hand and turned around to pull it over his head. This one was even more comically large on him than the last, and indeed the soft, pilling fabric betrayed many years of wear. He rolled up the sleeves frantically, even though it did nothing for his dignity at this point.

“D’you want me to set the table, Aziraphale?” Anathema said from behind him.

“Yes, please. Crowley’s helping me in here.”

A small glow of pride sent him hurrying into the kitchen to set upon peeling and chopping a pile of potatoes, quickly readjusting at Aziraphale’s sharp complaints. He had not been joking about being a terror to cook with. Crowley jumped from task to task, narrowly avoiding getting in Aziraphale’s way, determined to impress even with his extremely barebones kitchen skills. 

“No, no, _fold_ the batter, slower, or you’ll deflate the entire thing.”

“Chop that finer.”

“That’s not enough cinnamon.”

Crowley ended up not speaking a single word in his focus to not screw up. He just hastily followed the barking orders, wincing when he got something wrong and beaming when Aziraphale praised him. By the end, the two had laid out an impressive spread onto the newly-cleaned kitchen table: an egg, sausage, potato, and spinach breakfast scramble, beautifully swirled French toast, another pot of tea as well as a kettle full of homemade hot chocolate, biscuits, and a colorful bowl of fresh fruit salad. It had been well over an hour in the kitchen, and the giddy, almost childlike excitement on Aziraphale’s face was the perfect reward as they sat down to eat.

“You need to get your blood sugar up, Crowley. Drink some of the hot chocolate, and have some fruit, too,” Aziraphale said while greedily piling his own plate with heaping portions of everything. 

He wasn’t a fan of sweets, but he acquiesced anyway. Anathema poured herself a mug of tea, then leaned over to scrutinize the plate of biscuits.

“Aziraphale, can I eat these?”

“Yes, yes, I used the last of that strange vegan butter that you left last time you were here. Best I could do on short notice, I’m afraid,” he responded while patting his mouth daintily on a napkin.

Apparently satisfied, she nodded and collected a modest portion of the crumbling pastries, along with the fruit salad. 

“Thanks, it’s alright. I ate a little bit before you called me, anyway.”

Crowley figured now was a good time to question her.

“Speaking of blood. Where did you get your hands on that?”

“Oh, I’m a witch. It’s easy enough to get as long as you swear to each other you’ll only use it for benevolent purposes. They don’t need to know that it wasn’t actually occult happenings I was using it for.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale questioningly. He hadn’t even blinked, still focused on smothering syrup on his French toast. Anathema was still benignly poking at her fruit.

“…Okay. Is that… er… right.” He cleared his throat.

Crowley was too preoccupied with reconstructing his mental image of her to think of his next question. Unphased or perhaps used to this reaction, Anathema pressed forth.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“ _Crowley,_ ” Aziraphale chided.

“…Thanks.”

“There’s more. I guess I ought to go ahead and tell you what I was able to find out about your ‘situation,’ if you’d like.” She raised her hands for air quotes, before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a ragged leather-bound journal.

Anathema set it on the table and rifled through it, sticking her pencil behind her ear. Crowley tried to ascertain anything that was written inside, but it was an incomprehensible mess of drawings, scribbled notes, and weathered index cards. Her large dark eyes finally landed on the right page, marked by a bloodred ribbon bookmark, and she stopped rifling. She looked up at Crowley, adjusting her glasses.

“Do you want the good or the bad news first?”

“Bad.” Might as well get it out of the way.

“It seems the guys after you went and took it out on your car when they couldn’t find you. Bashed it really good. But, hey, thankfully, that’s pretty much it for the bad news, the actual-”

“ _No!_ ”

Crowley slammed his hand down on the table, startling both Anathema and Aziraphale. His face drained of color.

“Fuck. No, no way. How bad? _How bad is it?_ ”

“Hm. See for yourself,” Anathema said warily, pulling out a picture tucked into the margin and handing it over to him.

His car, his precious Bentley, was a wreck. He stared in horror at the massively dented hood, the shattered windows and lights, the slashed tires. Despair curled in his stomach. It looked like someone had crumpled the poor thing up like a tin can. He covered his mouth with his other hand, grateful once again that his eyes were hidden by dark glasses.

“But the thing is, that-”

“ _I. Am having. A moment. Here,_ ” he hissed at her.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, pity in his voice. 

Unthinkingly, completely instinctively, Crowley reached over the table and clutched Aziraphale’s resting hand. Something about it grounded him. He looked up from the picture to Aziraphale’s shocked expression, and immediately withdrew, coughing.

_Why did the fuck did I do that?_

Face burning, he avoided looking at Aziraphale only to be faced with Anathema’s eyebrows halfway up her forehead. The embarrassment had snapped him out of the intense pain just a bit. He glared at her as menacingly as possible. She just shrugged, instead pulling out another picture and sliding it over to him.

“What I was trying to say is the good news. They tried to break into your flat, but they seem to have given up after denting the door in something serious. That was probably when they went to go… do that… to your car instead. Whatever on Earth lock system you use, it’s what guaranteed that I’ll be able to retrieve some of your belongings for you.”

The picture showed the familiar front door to his flat. It was battered, and he could see the blunt force trauma concentrated on the hinges to try and break it open, but faithfully remained closed.

_Thank fucking Christ I invested in that security bar._

That was when something else important clicked in his grief-addled brain.

“Wait. How the hell do you know where I live? How did you know what car I drive? How did you get these photos? And DONT say it’s because you’re a _witch._ ”

“Oh, well, I mean, it’s not as though you were particularly well-hidden, were you? Aziraphale told me your name, which clearly was your real name and not an alias, and that was well enough to be able to track down your address, vehicle registration, all the mundane, oppressive details of Government bureaucracy that proved to me where you exist. Simple enough. You weren’t high enough on the ladder to really be that well-hidden, are you? Then, it was just a matter of relaying that information to my team, and they ran off to get some pictures of the aftermath to bring to me.”

Crowley sat there for a moment with his mouth open. She said everything so matter-of-factly that he couldn’t even argue – especially since she wasn’t wrong about any of that, and that she did this all just to help him. 

“Who’s – your ‘team’? Who’re they?” was all he could manage.

“Oh, just some neighborhood kids that I like. They run errands for me all the time.”

“You sent _kids_ to get evidence of a mob break-in?”

“Yes, but believe me, only because they’d be nose-deep in all sorts of trouble if I didn’t keep them busy. I’m keeping them _out_ of danger, not the other way around.” She chuckled. “Cute kids, though – smart, and very tough. They’re from the St. Agnes children’s home over down 4th street, you know the one?”

Ah.

Crowley laughed. And laughed. He kept laughing at his private joke, unable to stop even when Anathema and Aziraphale both stared at him like they were concerned he’d gone mad.

_I guess what goes around comes around._

“…Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty damn familiar with the place.”

“Crowley, did you… live there?” Aziraphale asked gently. Crowley then realized what his cryptic statement could be taken as.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I have parents. Er, had, I guess.”

Aziraphale and Anathema exchanged glances. Regretting bringing it up, Crowley straightened himself and cleared his throat.

“Anyways… They haven’t given up, that was just the initial wave of grunts trying to bust my head in after I got kicked out. They’re not just going to let me go. Now is when the smarter ones are gonna start watching over the place, waiting for me to come back. They’ll peg you as an accomplice if they see you go in, and it won’t take long for you to be a target, too.”

His flat wasn’t in a particularly rich area, but the place was nice. Crowley had always been weak to material comforts, partially why he stuck to the low-risk, better paying desk jobs. That was going to make it fractionally harder for Beelzebub to send surveillance over, especially after Dagon and the lackeys had no doubt made a commotion busting his car. He tried to give himself that small bit of hope. Anathema was nodding at him.

“Which is why we were going to stick to only what can be carried in a single load. Essentials only. You’ll need to give me a list of what you want and precisely where it is.”

Crowley thought longingly of his TV, and the largest of his ferns. He sighed.

“Alright. I can do that. How soon?”

“Aziraphale and I thought tonight was as good as any. I’ll need to pop home first, to grab some essentials before I go. Oh, and I’ll need any housekeys or security codes to get in.”

“Better to go to _day._ As in, during the daylight. Trust me, much less risk.”

“Well, it’ll cramp my style to not work by the moon, but I’ll make an exception in this case.”

She pulled the pencil from her ear, flipped to a new page, and started scribbling down a list.

“Do you want any seconds, dear?” Aziraphale gestured meaningfully at Crowley’s plate.

“Er, no, thanks.”

“Are you sure? Not just one more slice of this? It won’t keep in the fridge.”

“…Okay, fine.”

Aziraphale slid another piece of toast onto his plate, victorious, before beginning to clear away the other dishes on the table. Crowley quickly choked it down, before getting up to do the same with his own spot.

At the sink, Aziraphale fixed him with a concerned look he was beginning to know all too well.

“I’m sorry about your car, Crowley.”

“Ah… it’s… well. I’ll get it fixed one day.” He tried not to think of the picture still lying on the table.

“That’s right. You still owe me a ride, don’t you?” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley’s heart skipped a beat, for some reason.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.” He put his plate on the drying rack and turned back to the table before he could lose his nerve.

* * * 

After that, Anathema left with Crowley’s keys and the promise she’d be back at four to collect his list, then set off. She gave Aziraphale a hug and they exchanged kisses on each cheek before they parted, and when she saw the bristling look on Crowley’s face, hastily said that it had been nice to meet him and cleared off. Aziraphale gave him a stern admonishment on manners afterward. Sufficiently cowed, he gave a half-hearted excuse about trust and strangers knowing too much, but he knew deep down that her unfamiliarity was only half of it.

He justified the weird resentment he felt toward her as uncertainty about the fate of his possessions. What else would it be?

All he knew is that he didn’t like how fond Aziraphale was toward her. 

He would have denied it to his very screaming grave, of course, but he couldn’t stop thinking about their embrace. And how he wanted to be the one to be hugged, even kissed, by Aziraphale-

_Stop!_

Crowley shook his head in the middle of sorting inventory for the third time already that hour. Aziraphale was at the front of the shop, and he could faintly make out him arguing passionately with a customer. It still irked him that Aziraphale had such a weirdly lackadaisical attitude toward his business – hell, he had opened four hours after his scheduled hours, and he continued to drive customers away at all costs.

_Maybe he’s so rich that he doesn’t care about making money. If he used to be a doctor, that could be it. But then why open a shop at all?_

The work was mind-numbing and only marginally satisfying. Aziraphale checked in on him occasionally, humming approval when he saw how quickly Crowley was getting through the boxes. Crowley, for his part, was bored out of his skull. He cultivated a list of things from his flat to give to Anathema between completed inventory sheets. His laptop, a bare minimum number of clothing articles, his speaker, a few of the smaller plants… It was supremely difficult to limit himself.

Begrudgingly, he didn’t want to overburden Anathema. She seemed… eccentric, but competent. Despite the vegan, wiccan, new-age bullshit thing she had going on, Crowley could still see how the two had things in common. He realized he didn’t really even know if Aziraphale had any “spiritual beliefs” either. He didn’t really know anything about his hobbies, other than books and food. He still didn’t even know how old Aziraphale was. Younger than forty, he’d said. Did that mean he was closer to Crowley’s age than he thought? How did he become friends with some mid-twenties moonchild from America, then?

_I swear, I’m going to get more information out of him if it’s the last thing I do._

_What are we, now, anyway? Roommates? I’ve never had one. I wonder how I’ll do at it._

_Probably rubbish. Especially since I now don’t have jack shit for money._

He thanked his lucky stars he had been smart enough to opt out of digital payments on his flat.

He made a mental note to freeze his bank account once he got his laptop back.

“I’m almost four, Crowley. Do you have the list ready for Anathema?”

Aziraphale stood in the doorway, swinging a keyring.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got it right here.”

“Good. She’ll be here any minute, come with me.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale to the front of the shop. Aziraphale leaned against the desk, looking out the window, while Crowley stood there awkwardly.

“Erm. How did you meet her? Anathema, I mean,” he tried.

“Mm… Mutual love of antique collectibles. She was in possession of a particular copy that I wanted, and because she wouldn’t sell it, I asked if I could at least look at it once. From there, she became a regular figure here, and, well. She has a skillset that is quite handy around here from time to time. God knows she doesn’t get any intellectual stimulation from her boyfriend.” He chortled. “The boy broke my computer once just by leaning against the mouse. Apologized profusely, of course, but that’s besides the point.”

“Is she actually a witch?”

“Oh, yes, she’s very serious about that. Who am I to judge her spiritual practices?”

Crowley mulled that over for a moment.

“Guess so. Are you…? Do you believe in anything, religion-wise?”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, turning and looking curiously at Crowley. 

“Now that is a question, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale turned back to the window. There was a long pause, and just when Crowley thought he wasn’t going to answer, he spoke quietly.

“There’s a God. I don’t know if it’s a kind one, but I think there is one. Anything further I believe I lost hope of a long time ago.”

His blue eyes reflected faintly in the glass. Crowley felt uncomfortable at how pensive he looked, like Crowley had inadvertently dug up bad memories. He knew the feeling well.

“What about you, Crowley? What do you believe?”

“Honestly? Just about the same as you. I was raised Catholic, fell from grace. You know how the Italian stereotype is.”

Aziraphale laughed at that. “And you joined the mob.”

“I know it’s cliché. It’s like God had it out for me from the beginning.”

Aziraphale smiled serenely.

“Well. You must have done something right, otherwise, how would you be here?”

Crowley’s throat felt tight at the tenderness in his gaze. Before he could process that, though, Aziraphale’s eyes fixed on something and he stood from the desk. Turning around, Crowley saw through the glass Anathema leaning an old-fashioned bicycle against the window and striding over to push the door open. She still had on the same coat, but had pulled her hair into a half-updo and changed out of her long black maxi skirt, wearing now instead a pair of tweed pants covered in pockets and laced up brown boots. She also had a huge backpack strapped across her back, and several crystal necklaces strung around her neck. 

Crowley made the decision not to ask about the crystals.

“Alright, everything ready?” she asked.

“Er, are you going to be riding your bike there? What if you need to make a quick getaway?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I scoped the place out beforehand, and I couldn’t sense any malicious presences. Plus, it’s rush hour, I can be in and out without notice easily.”

“…Right.” He handed her the list, rolling his eyes in safety behind his sunglasses.

She scanned it, nodding. Her face brightened.

“You keep plants?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, excellent!” She was halfway out the door, waving enthusiastically. “Let’s have a chat when I get back! Shouldn’t be more than an hour!”

And with that, she hopped on her bike, and took off down the busy street before disappearing into the crowd.

“Ah, I never mentioned, did I? Anathema is that friend that always gives me flowers. You two should have plenty to discuss later on," Aziraphale said pleasantly.

Crowley couldn’t disagree with that smile. He turned back to the storeroom.

* * *

After the most distracted hour of work Crowley had maybe ever had (which was saying a lot), the jangle of the shop bell finally broke through the quiet of the shop. 

He heard Anathema call out, “Delivery!”

Crowley sprang up, abandoning his inventory sheet and bounding to the front of the shop. Anathema was hoisting her bulging backpack, a small sheen of sweat on her face.

“Here, let me take that.” Crowley quickly took the bag off her shoulders, before wheezing and nearly dropping it. 

“Let’s get this upstairs, yeah?” She wiped her forehead.

“Crowley, do you need help with that?” Aziraphale appeared from the stacks, holding the keys to lock up. 

“It’s _my_ shit, least I could do is carry it.” He staggered slightly at the effort of lifting it, already feeling a twinge at his ribs from the strain.

Aziraphale locked the doors, then in one easy motion, he plucked the backpack out of Crowley’s grasp with one hand. Ignoring Crowley’s protests, he slung it over one shoulder effortlessly and marched off toward the back entrance to the flat.

“Staying, Anathema?” Aziraphale called out.

“Nah. I’ve got other plans tonight,” she shouted. Straightening up, she dusted off her front and winked conspiratorially at Crowley. 

“Wouldn’t want to third wheel or anything,” she said at a normal volume. Pointedly.

“Wh- That’s not- I mean-”

She just crossed her arms and waited. Crowley’s bluster died, leaving just the deeply confused fatigue of someone way out of their depth.

“…Thanks. For getting my stuff, I mean.”

“You’re welcome. Just consider it a favor owed. We still need to chat gardening sometime, I’ll bring some flowers over soon.” Anathema started to leave.

“Wait. Anathema?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you… do you have any ideas on how I can pay Aziraphale back for staying here?” The words tumbled out before Crowley could even have a chance to think about them. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

She exhaled, pushing her glasses up her nose before fixing him with a steady look.

"Aziraphale is a private person. He’s lived alone for quite a while. The fact that he’s taken you in so easily means something. Means that you being there is payment enough for him. Between you and me, you're already doing a good job. Just don't disappoint him, and everything will be fine."

She walked over to the desk, pulling a pink stone out of her pocket and setting it down on the varnished wood.

“Rose Quartz, for help in romance. Tell Aziraphale I said goodbye, will you?”

Crowley didn’t watch her leave, just stared at the smooth pink rock on the desk for too long after the door slammed shut. He shook his head, turning to head upstairs and unpack his things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they were roommates...


	8. Testing Waters

Aziraphale left the bag on the guest room’s floor, then smiled and left Crowley to settle in. 

He re-rolled up his baggy sleeves and got to work. He set his plants along the windowsill, fussing and watering the dry soil. He plugged in his computer and speaker. He unpacked his clothes and organized them in the tiny closet. There was a moment where he paused, holding one of his black Oxford shirts, realizing that he now had the ability to change out of Aziraphale’s dumpy loungewear. 

It felt… wrong. He reasoned that he had already dirtied them, so he might as well wear them for one more night. Crowley stared at his reflection and turned away, quashing that pesky inner voice that questioned _why._ He had work to do.

When he started to push one of the storage boxes toward the wall in an attempt to organize, Aziraphale appeared seemingly out of nowhere in the doorway. Crowley bolted upright with a start.

“I was just-”

“You are under strict doctor’s orders not to strain yourself, Crowley.”

He strode his way in and dismissively pushed Crowley aside. Embarrassed to be caught fucking with Aziraphale’s stuff (and for being so useless), Crowley stood awkwardly and watched him push and stack the extra boxes neatly in the corner. 

“Wait, keep that one out. Could you move it next to the bed so I could use it as a nightstand?”

“Good thinking.” 

Aziraphale moved the largest box into place. Crowley set his favorite bamboo plant and his alarm clock on top of it. While he was at it, he stripped his sheets, because they still smelled like day-old sweat and dried blood. Aziraphale helped, gathering them into his arms.

“Be downstairs in an hour for dinner.”

Busying himself by setting his laptop on the mattress, Crowley steeled himself and spoke before Aziraphale could leave and he would lose his nerve.

“Pizza. It’s tradition to order pizza while moving in. My treat?”

There was a brief pause. Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully.

“That’s a wonderful idea. A little celebration, to new beginnings?”

Crowley forced himself to look up and make eye contact. 

“And as a thanks, to you.” He coughed, turning back to his computer. “I need to get my mind off my Bentley, anyway.”

“Of course. I’ll be downstairs, then.”

He waited until Aziraphale’s footsteps faded, then released a massive breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

_Right. Get to work._

Crowley called the best local place he could think of, and ordered twice as much pizza than two men could possibly need. After staring longingly at the shower for a moment, he settled for frantically brushing his teeth and scrubbing his armpits with a wet washcloth. Deodorant, a spritz of cologne, check. He bent over the sink and scrubbed and rinsed his hair and face clean, careful of the healing cuts. Fresh-faced and flushed, his reflection already looked far less dead. Anathema was only able to recover the bare essentials of his products, but it was enough to fix his damp jet-black hair into a passably neat hairstyle. Better at least than the greasy rat’s nest it had been for the past few days. 

The final touch was carefully cleaning his new sunglasses and sliding them up his nose, his yellow eyes disappearing behind them.

Crowley checked his watch and retrieved the black sock full of twenties he had always kept for emergencies. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and padded on bare feet out of his new room and down the stairs.

Aziraphale was nowhere to be found, so he continued on through the shop door, and saw across the room Aziraphale opening the front door for the teenage delivery girl and smiling brightly at her. He bolted, weaving through the shelves.

“Wait! I’ve… huff… got it.” Crowley doubled over painfully onto his knees to catch his breath. He straightened, wincing, and thrust the cash at the startled girl.

“Keep the change.”

“Crowley, what part of ‘don’t strain yourself’ did you not understand?” Aziraphale scolded, balancing the three pizza boxes on his hip.

“Sorry, slipped my mind.”

Aziraphale thanked her and locked the door once more while Crowley privately recovered. It was deeply irritating to be so fragile, but at least he had beat Aziraphale to paying. He followed as they made their way to the living room coffee table. Aziraphale had set out two plates, and another impressively nice bottle of wine with glasses to boot. 

If anything less, Crowley was grateful that the other man matched his taste perfectly.

Aziraphale greedily piled his plate high and tucked in.

“What a treat, Crowley, thank you for the wonderful idea!”

He waved his hand, secretly glowing. “It’s the very least I could do.”

Crowley took it upon himself to uncork the bottle, a 1986 aged Petite Syrah, and poured two glasses. After handing one to Aziraphale, he cleared his throat and raised his. There was a lot he could have said in that moment, but he didn’t quite know how to say those words correctly, so he settled for one:

“Cheers?”

“Cheers.”

_Clink._

They spent some time chatting idly, enjoying the food and drink in comfortable companionship. Three slices in, Aziraphale rose and put a record on his vinyl player, and pleasantly soft classical music filled the room. Crowley wasn’t familiar, but it was the kind of music no one could really disagree with. 

“Do you play any instruments, Crowley?”

“No, I’m pretty much completely tone-deaf.”

“I have always wanted to learn to play the piano, but I never had the time.”

“Piano?” He pictured it, and smiled. “That would suit you, I think.”

“’Suit me’? What do you mean?”

“Just that you look like someone who would play piano. Gentle… classic. Important.” 

Crowley’s cheeks warmed, taking a bigger sip of the wine. It was delicious, and excellent for blaming his increasing heartbeat on. Aziraphale followed suit, smelling the glass deeply.

“Hm. In that case, you look like someone who would play a violin.”

Crowley snorted. “A violin? Really?”

“Yes. Sleek, elegant. You can be sharp, or… soft.”

There was no trace of irony in Aziraphale’s plaintive tone. Crowley shook his head.

“That’s… well. I don’t know about that.” He refilled their glasses, managing to keep steady.

“Perhaps. We are, after all, basing this on but a few days of impression on each other, aren’t we?”

“I s’pose…” Crowley frowned at his half-eaten plate. In the background, the music changed to something deeper and more rhythmic.

An anonymous, itching _want_ was pressing against his ribcage. He didn’t know how to voice it, let alone how to enact it. It was restless, and too vast to consider deeply. With nowhere else to turn, impulsivity took over.

“Shall we play another game?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrow. “We really shouldn’t let it get out of hand again, dear boy-”

“No, no, it doesn’t have to go that far. I mean, we’ve barely had any yet.”

Aziraphale rubbed his chin, eyeing the single half-empty bottle. Crowley pushed on.

“What about this: ‘Truth or Drink.’ Different game, simpler this time.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Am I to assume that you ask a question, and either tell the truth or take a drink?”

“Yeah. I mean, we might as well know more about each other, if we’re going to be flatmates, right?”

It sounded so perfectly reasonable. Innocent, even. Aziraphale smiled, tucking his feet underneath himself and setting his plate onto the table. Crowley stayed sitting on the floor, mind already running a million miles an hour.

“Alright. Shall we?”

“Yes. So. Aziraphale.”

Start small.

“… How old are you?”

He giggled. “Was this all a front to get to ask me that?”

“Not quite, but maybe a little.”

“Alright, very well. I’m 32.”

A pregnant pause.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I am not.”

“You… you’re the same age as me?” Crowley’s mind was reeling. He slammed down a hearty gulp of his wine just to avoid how much that disturbed him.

“Why does that surprise you so much? Is it because I ‘seem old,’ in your words?” Aziraphale was clearly enjoying this, taking another drink as well.

“I guess – yeah, probably.”

The actual truth, he thought moodily, was far pettier.

_He really is just better at life than me. He chose the right path, and was rewarded with success rather than suffering._

_And what kind of loser am I to be saved and babied and taken care of by a man who doesn't even have any more years under the belt?_

“My turn then, right?” Aziraphale broke through his tipsy spiraling.

“Shoot.”

“What’s your family like? Your biological family, I mean.”

“Oh. Hm.” He considered his glass, before deciding to just spill.

“Not much to tell. My mum and dad were wealthy business executives with heavy ties to their real ‘family.’ I was always expected to join, right from birth. I have too many siblings, none of them matter, considering I barely ever saw any of ‘em. Too spread apart, too busy.”

“’Were’? Are your parents…?”

“No. They’re not dead. They’ve just disowned me.”

Aziraphale drank, looking grim. Not in the way someone would if they had just learned something terrible, but in the way someone would when confirming something already suspected. Crowley wondered…

“What about you? We both have to answer each question,” Crowley blurted.

“Is that a rule?”

“It is now.”

“Very well, dear.” 

Aziraphale sighed, getting that same thousand-yard stare he had earlier that night when Crowley asked about his religion.

“I’m afraid I grew up in quite a similar situation. I was raised with high expectations, being one of the oldest.” He absent-mindedly swirled the red wine in little circles as he spoke. “I, too, was disowned. I haven’t spoken to any of them in many years. I feel… grateful that I got away when I did.”

Crowley took his sunglasses off, carefully folding them and setting them next to his now-empty glass. He gingerly stood and topped off Aziraphale’s glass, before emptying the bottle into his.

“So. You’re like me,” Crowley said.

“In a few respects, yes.”

“Except… you escaped at the right time, and I escaped at the wrong one.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, unexpectedly firm. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“But-”

“You got out. You’re in the process of healing, of getting free. It’s never too late for that. We will get you through this.”

Crowley smiled a little as he drank. The music changed to something sweet, a slow melody of strings.

“Whatever you say, angel.”

As he sat his wine back down, he looked up to see Aziraphale studying him with a curious expression.

“What did you call me, dear?”

Too late, he realized his mistake. His exposed face flooded with heat.

“Aziraphale, I- I mean. Pronounced it wrong. S- Slip of the tongue.”

He dug his nails into the palms of his hands. _Dammit._

He schooled his expression and chanced a glance back up. Aziraphale just considered him over the rim of his glass and said nothing, humming a tiny bit and taking another swig. Trying to save face, Crowley reached for his glasses.

“Leave them off. I’ll dim the lights.”

Aziraphale stood, stretched, and walked across the room to do just that. Crowley’s hands itched, but he folded them on his lap. When the lamps were turned on and Aziraphale lit a dusty scented candle on the side table, the room was filled with a pleasant, ambient glow. Suddenly feeling very nervous, Crowley took another drink. 

“There. I like to see your face when we speak, Crowley.”

He choked. Thankfully managing not to spit, he doubled over himself and swallowed, coughing, his ears burning red-hot. Aziraphale, damn him, rushed over and pressed a hand against Crowley’s back as he sputtered.

“Oh dear, are you alright?”

“Yes- Yes, I’m fine.” The coughing agitated the injuries on his torso, sending pangs of pain through him as he calmed himself. 

The warmth of Aziraphale’s fingers seeping through his sweater were _not_ helping. Aziraphale rubbed, comfortingly, before letting it fall away. Crowley almost wanted to keep coughing.

Aziraphale caught his eye and smiled at him, reaching over to grab his own wine. Crowley realized with faint horror that Aziraphale was settling down to kneel on the floor right next to where Crowley sat.

“There. Now, whose turn was it?”

No longer separated by distance and furniture, Crowley fought to concentrate with Aziraphale so close to him.

“Er… mine, I think.” He couldn’t look at him. Crowley was too sober, he wasn’t brave enough.

_Brave enough for what, exactly?_

“How many people have you dated?” Perfectly casual. Just bringing the mood up.

_Careful, careful._

“…Hm. That depends… I suppose by most people’s standards… Six people.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“Some weren’t exactly serious. It was more of a _specific_ arrangement than that, I would say.” There was a playful lilt in Aziraphale’s voice.

“Oh. I see.” 

Crowley did not see at all, whatsoever.

“And you’ve… never?” 

“No.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale’s tone had shifted to a cautious, gentle tiptoe.

“Never felt the need.” A heavy gulp of wine, to hide his half-truth.

_You never wanted who you were supposed to._

“Ah. Are you…” Was that disappointment in Aziraphale’s voice? “Are you not attracted to anyone, then?”

Crowley considered that. As much of a useful front that would have been, there was something greedy and loud in him that protested. He couldn’t.

“No, that’s not it, either. Anyway, it’s your turn.”

The abrupt subject change hung in the air as Crowley listened to Aziraphale swallow down more wine. Unnoticed, the song had changed to a piano ballad while they were talking.

“Crowley. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“…Is that your question? Because, er, yeah. There’s a lot of things I haven’t told you yet. We just met, remember?” He snorted.

“Well, if you insist on being a smartass, then I guess it was a silly question.”

It wasn’t, though. A mere foot apart, there was something pressing between the two men sat on the floor, one refusing to look at the other. Crowley wondered desperately if Aziraphale felt the same thing, the hungry, magnetic force that seemed to attract and repel at the same time.

Crowley drank, and let himself look. Aziraphale’s cheeks and lips were pink, and his blue eyes were searching. Crowley wondered what he himself looked like to Aziraphale. He wanted it to be good, whatever it was.

There was one golden curl that was crooked, hanging over the other man’s forehead. With one shaky hand, Crowley reached across the space between them and brushed it back into place. Time felt slow as molasses, the gesture monumental.

As he pulled back, Aziraphale reached up, just as slow, and captured Crowley’s hand with his own. Warm, so soft. Their fingers brushed, just a passing fancy, before parting.

Aziraphale’s expression was unbearable. Crowley drained his glass, a shaky exhale rocking through his shoulders. Aziraphale turned and did the same.

“One more question.”

“Anything, dear boy.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes together. He wanted to run away, but forced himself to stay right where he was, and face this.

_For once in your life._

“…Can I sleep in your bed again tonight?”

“Whatever happened to ‘moving too fast,’ hm?” Aziraphale teased.

“That’s- that’s not-”

“I’m kidding with you. Darling, of course you can.” 

He rose to his feet, only slightly unsteady, and extended a hand for Crowley.

When he took it, he was pulled up so quickly his head spun. Aziraphale pulled back and rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.

“I’m… pretty sure your sheets are still in the wash, anyhoo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine really kicked my ass, huh?  
> Sorry for so long without an update, but on the bright side, I got my ADHD medication refilled and I'm raring to go!
> 
> Fun fact: I am also in the process of moving + acquiring new roommates as this is written


	9. White Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your official warning that from this chapter forth, NSFW content can and will begin to kick into the story.
> 
> (and another to just say... religious trauma ahoy.)

He wasn’t drunk enough for this. He wasn’t drunk enough for this. He was far, _far_ too sober to have any excuse for this.

The rational part of Crowley’s brain kept making a ruckus as he followed Aziraphale upstairs, heart pounding in his ears. He was on some sort of autopilot. That was the only way he could make sense of it. There was some sort of puppet string hooked into his gut, pulling him forward and making his feet move with only slightly wobbly steps. The same force that had him ducking into his room and brushing his teeth, mechanical as he stared blankly at his reflection.

The same force as he stood in front of Aziraphale’s door, taking a deep breath, before cautiously stepping inside.

Aziraphale’s back was to him, sliding on the shirt of a matching blue flannel pajama set. Crowley’s ears were ringing as the other man turned and smiled, expression neutral as he buttoned up. His chest was smooth, and pale, and that was all Crowley allowed himself to observe before he beelined for the bed and practically dove under the covers.

Curled into a ball, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and tried to calm down. His ears were hypersensitive to the sound of Aziraphale turning on the sink, flushing the toilet. The anticipation was nearly unbearable. Finally, he heard soft footsteps near him, and a weight pressing into the other side of the bed. The lamp clicked off. The sheets rustled, close enough that Crowley could nearly imagine he felt the warmth of the other body near him.

A brief, deafening pause hung in the air, before:

“Good night, Crowley. Sleep well.”

“…Yeah. ‘Night.”

He couldn’t say how long he laid there, muscles taught, unable to relax, unable to stop himself from listening to Aziraphale’s breathing. It could very well have been hours. Time seemed suspended in a state of numb, rhythmic pulses.

It was only when Crowley realized, incredulously, that he could recognize the difference between _awake_ Aziraphale’s breathing and _sleeping_ Aziraphale’s breathing that he shifted.

He peeked above the quilt. Aziraphale was on his back, eyes closed peacefully and bow lips slightly parted. He was a deep breather, Crowley thought. The fact that it nearly bordered on snoring was endearing, in a bizarre way.

The tension bled out of him, leaving him drained. Crowley laid back down, facing Aziraphale. His hand, of its own accord, stretched out underneath the sheets, searching until it found its target. He rested his hand in Aziraphale’s open palm, marveling at the warmth. 

_Is this okay? This is okay, right?_

Crowley couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to. In fact, he was already falling asleep.

_There was nothing between them._

_They were pressed together, allowed to touch and feel whatever they pleased._

_Crowley was overwhelmed by the force of it, of Aziraphale’s hands all over him without restraint, and they were kissing._

_Aziraphale’s mouth felt holy, it felt like purifying light, and it was all Crowley could do to grasp desperately at him and hold tight as his soul was bared clean._

_If he opened his eyes, he would be blinded, and yet he could see everything._

_Their lips broke apart and he whined, fingers twisting uselessly in Aziraphale’s._

_And there he was, nearly glowing, with so much tenderness in his gaze._

_Crowley could do nothing but stare up in awe at him, a mutual worship between them._

_He was pinned on his back by it, subjugated by Aziraphale’s mercy._

_His hands were everywhere again, and a sanctifying fire was building in Crowley’s gut as Aziraphale touched him._

_The world zeroed in and Crowley gasped with it, Aziraphale’s fingers curling around him where he ached, and he thought he would die from the intensity of that gentle stroke, and the angel was close, speaking softly into his ear, as he melted and became new, telling him how good Crowley was and how much he wanted –_

Crowley bolted upright with a strangled cry that got caught in his throat when he clapped one hand over his mouth. 

He had been so, so fucking _close._

A thin, feverish sweat broke out as his cock throbbed, frantic in time with his heart. Nauseated beyond belief, he froze in horror as Aziraphale stirred next to him. They had migrated together in their sleep, limbs tangled even as their bodies were decidedly separated. 

“Nnn… Crowley?”

_FUCK._

His stupid, bloody _traitor_ of a dick hadn’t gotten the _fucking message yet_ that this was _NOT THE TIME,_ just continued to ache insistently against _Aziraphale’s sweatpants_ and he bit down hard against his palm to keep from _sprinting_ out of the room and _fucking disappearing forever – oh God answer him Crowley –_

“It’sss, fine. Go back to- to sssleep,” he hissed. Panic slurred his words in what he hoped could pass for grogginess to Aziraphale’s half-concious state.

_Please please please –_

“Nm. No, don’t leave again.” Aziraphale still didn’t open his eyes, just reached out clumsily and grabbed Crowley’s arm. And _pulled,_ with strength that didn’t match his drowsy state. Still stiff with terror, Crowley’s back hit the mattress. 

The closeness wasn’t _helping._ He knew, with icy dread, that he had already leaked a wet spot through his pants. Crowley threw himself onto his side, away from Aziraphale, trying to will it away. He was _sick_ with it.

Aziraphale snuggled up behind him, making contented little snuffling noises against the back of Crowley’s neck. Goosebumps erupted over him and every hair on his body stood on end. His teeth threatened to break through the skin on his hand as he shuddered pathetically.

As Aziraphale slowly lapsed back into sleep behind him, Crowley concentrated on ignoring him and that damn _warmth_ against his back. Painfully, excruciatingly, his cock finally softened. He felt even worse. He couldn’t escape. He fell back into an uneasy sleep, already trying to forget what had happened.

_It was just a dream. It meant nothing._

_It was just a dream. It meant nothing._

_It was just a dream. It meant nothing._

_“It was just a dream. It meant nothing,” fourteen-year-old Crowley insisted to the ornately carved screen._

_The air inside that church, especially in those dark-curtained confessional booths, always seemed to itch against his skin. It probably had to do with the dust, the smell of old incense, or the guilt – likely, a combination of the three that hung like tapestries on the walls and stuck like a sweaty neck against hard wooden pews._

_Crowley half-listened to the priest drone about responsibility, and the temptation of sin, and that bodies are not to be listened to, and how we all carry our own personal demons, et cetera. He was busy trying to summon the relief he thought he’d feel after being forgiven; it was supposed to come and sweep away the restlessness, the confusion, the shame._

_When he’d started feeling things for other boys, he knew what was going to happen to him. He wasn’t bloody stupid, no matter what his grades at school said. He ignored it and clammed up, promising that he’d deal with it when he absolutely had to._

_That moment happened when he woke up one night with a racing heart and sticky sheets for the first time. The face in his mind and the name on his lips was Raphael’s, the good-looking youth group leader that always smiled at him and asked how things were going when they ran into each other at mass._

_As he snuck downstairs and put his sheets in the wash, Crowley vowed to never speak to him again, to never even look in his direction._

_He confessed a heavily edited and detached version of the truth, but the truth nonetheless._

_Father David sent him off with the penance of three Hail Mary’s and a full rosary every night for a week before bed._

_It didn’t matter, he thought over the years, if he was actually going to hell. Or if God was real in the first place. What mattered was him, and his life. His reputation. His career. His family. None of which could have anything to do with his… desires. Steady money, a nice flat, a promising and cozy future full of things like luxury booze and exotic plants and designer clothes and jewelry would be worth it._

_He would do as he was asked. He would keep his head down. He would be fine, as long as he pushed it all away and never acted upon any of it. As long as he never even thought about it. It was going to bring him nothing but pain, and he wanted no part of it._

_No matter what his body and his heart said on the matter._


	10. Fresh Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleased to announce that I've been working on a Spotify playlist for this fic for a while now, and I've decided to share it with you guys! Make of the selection what you will, all of them are there for a specific reason so I'll gladly explain any of the choices and what they mean to anyone who wants to know. Also happy to take any suggestions!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7dDhvSEhamcxgU4vJNBQ2D?si=McrZIUVCQ6mes6mvSlwf8Q
> 
> (and yes, it's just as self-indulgent as you'd expect, so you'll be able to see exactly how predictable my music taste is lmfao)

Crowley woke up cold, to an empty bed and an impending sense of doom.

_Ah._

_Right._

_…Fuck._

He felt exhausted, restless, and uncomfortable from going to sleep with blue balls. He wanted to roll over into the sweet-smelling sheets and never emerge.

Right as his misery peaked, the door opened and Aziraphale’s smiling, oblivious face peered through. 

At that moment, Crowley’s worldview shifted to one single, world-shatteringly important duty:

_Aziraphale must never know about this._

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Can you get up for me? I need to change your bandages.”

Crowley grunted, numb with discomfort, and clambered out from the blankets. He took his borrowed shirt off, flinging it across the room like one would a venomous snake, and sat stiffly with his legs crossed on the bed. 

As Aziraphale got into his now-familiar routine, Crowley screwed his eyes shut and tried to think of anything other than the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands on him. 

_Biting clean through your tongue that one time in high school._

_Getting attacked by that feral dog in the alleyway._

_Dad slapping you across the face when he shouted._

_Dagon’s switchblade cutting across his ribs._

“Sorry, sorry, dear. Still tender there?”

Crowley must’ve winced, because Aziraphale was now doing a concerned flutter around the stitches in his middle, a disinfectant wipe in his hand.

“Er. Yeah, a bit.” _Reel it in._

Admittedly, his wounds actually looked, and felt, far better. He could take far worse pain than a little rubbing alcohol. Crowley needed to find a way to get out of the first aid routine ASAP, before it drove him insane or gave away too much.

“Before you put the new bandages on me… Can I take a shower? Or at least a bath?”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale crossed his arms, searching Crowley’s face. He tried to look innocent, fingers twisting nervously in the quilt.

_He doesn’t know. Don’t act suspicious. You CANNOT freak out now._

“I suppose at this point, you may. Not too hot of water, and be _gentle._ Don’t use any perfumed products near the open cuts, understood?”

Crowley nodded frantically, already jumping to his feet and scurrying out the door.

“Yeah yeah, got it!”

When Crowley closed and locked the door of his new bedroom behind him, he let out a massive breath he didn’t know he had been holding, bracing one hand against the wall. He knew what he had to do.

Sinking his teeth into his lower lip, he shoved his trousers and pants down to his ankles and kicked them aside, already thrumming with a panicked, sickly energy. Normally he demanded his shower temperature to be scalding, but Aziraphale’s orders echoed in his head as he set it to a moderate warm. 

Crowley stepped in, wincing when the water made contact. That pain hardly registered. His cock was already fully hard, and he didn’t know or care when that had happened. He was already closing a shaky fist around himself and jerking hard, nearly painfully, letting out a quiet sob of relief.

It felt awful, as he braced himself against the tile and mechanically worked at himself, too much friction and pressure, but he couldn’t stop. Right now, he needed this. He needed to be rid of this. 

_You will never get off because of Aziraphale ever again. This is the last time, and then it'll be out of your system._

_Don’t think about Aziraphale._

_Don’t._

Crowley didn’t think about Aziraphale. He didn’t think about his piercing, tender blue gaze. He didn’t think about how that plush mouth would feel against his, or what it would be like to bury his hands into Aziraphale’s golden curls. He didn’t think about Aziraphale’s hands at all, _oh God,_ how big and soft and warm they were, just the barest hint of callouses, handling him with care. He didn’t think about that stupid _dream_ last night, and he didn’t think about Aziraphale’s breath against the back of his neck, or what it would be like if Crowley closed the gap between them and pressed back against Aziraphale’s – 

He buried his teeth into the bite mark on his hand, heaving and convulsing as he came all over the wall. It seemed to go on forever, his head blank and ears ringing with the intensity. By the time the aftershocks had passed, Crowley realized he was still biting his hand, which was screaming with pain. That was going to bruise something fierce.

He finished washing himself on autopilot, mind blissfully empty. 

He could put last night behind him. Crowley had just been entirely too pent up, making him revert back to wet dreams like a bloody teenager. If he could just get back into a regular rhythm, this never needed to happen again. And _never_ sleep with Aziraphale again, that had been a total mistake. A fluke, too much wine and a lapse in his reasonable judgement. He could, and would, have a friend like Aziraphale and be normal about it. He had to.

Starting with wearing his own damn clothes.

After drying and fixing his hair, he found himself dressing in his favorite belt and slacks, smiling at his reflection before breaking out some of the jewelry that Anathema had retrieved for him: a platinum watch, gold rings, a silver chain with an intricate snake design he had custom commissioned a long time ago. He was sliding black studs into his ears and pulling out a black silk shirt when there was a knock at the door.

“Are you done in there?”

Crowley fumbled with the lock and opened it. Aziraphale tapped his foot impatiently and pushed past him, holding the roll of gauze.

“Sit down. Did you do as I asked?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” Crowley grumbled, rolling his eyes and sitting on the bed.

Apparently satisfied with his inspection, Aziraphale smiled and began to apply the bandages. “Good.”

Crowley pointedly ignored the fluttering in his stomach at the praise.

As soon as Aziraphale tied off the final strip, Crowley stepped to his feet and began buttoning his shirt over them, looking out the window to distract himself.

“Hm.”

Crowley turned around as he was adjusting the final button. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that you clean up nicely, is all.” Aziraphale slid his hands into his khaki pockets, the picture of innocence as he looked Crowley up and down.

He flushed and clenched his jaw, unable to stop from preening a little.

_Damn him._

***

After overhearing the third customer of the day get turned away by Aziraphale’s brusque demeanor, Crowley had had enough. 

Once he had gotten the hang of Aziraphale’s convoluted sorting system, inventory was proving to be far too menial of a task to occupy him fully. It wasn’t even noon, and he was already finished with his list of duties. Which left him with nothing to do but eavesdrop.

Crowley marched up to the front of the shop, where Aziraphale was sat behind the desk, peering at a thick tome through his glasses.

He looked up. “Yes, dear?”

“If I’m to be your employee, it’s only right for me to have a vested interest in how the business is run, yeah?”

Aziraphale frowned slightly. Crowley didn’t give him a chance to answer.

“So, why do you keep running your customers off?”

Aziraphale sighed. He slid what looked like a hand-knit bookmark into place, before shutting the book and steepling his hands.

“I imagine that curiosity of yours got you into trouble more than once at your former profession.”

Crowley huffed and crossed his arms, but didn’t budge.

“Alright. I suppose at this point, I may as well tell you what you probably already suspect.”

“This shop is a front, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, unruffled. “Yes. But not in the way you’re thinking.”

Invigorated, Crowley leaned forward, putting a hand down on the desk. “Yeah? How so?”

Aziraphale stood suddenly, making Crowley start slightly and take a step back. He just smiled and picked up the empty mug sat next to the book.

“Shall we discuss over a spot of tea?”

_Hint received._ Crowley nodded, following Aziraphale eagerly as he flipped the “closed” sign outward and made his way toward the back office. Crowley looked around as Aziraphale closed and locked the door behind him.

He hadn’t been in here since the night they met. The room had looked somehow more… austere, in his shell-shocked and blood loss-addled state. Now, with the curtains drawn and sunlight filtering through the window, it seemed equal parts cozy and elegant. Aziraphale produced an electric kettle that looked ancient and busied himself preparing two mugs.

“Sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

Aziraphale dropped two cubes into his own drink and stirred, sitting in the ornate chair behind the desk. When Crowley remained standing, he gestured sternly with one hand.

“Sit.”

Crowley obeyed, taking a sip of the tea. He hardly noticed it burning the shit out of his tongue. “So?”

Aziraphale regarded him for a long moment over the rim of his mug as he drank. Crowley did not fidget, even though he desperately wanted to.

“As you have probably already guessed, I was born into a family not unlike yours. The difference, however, is that mine was far, _far_ more powerful in their dominion.”

Crowley had to fight against the instinct to protest at Aziraphale’s matter-of-fact insult, reminding himself that he was in no position to defend his family’s honor anymore. Aziraphale paused to think, seeming to choose his words carefully.

“Another thing you already know is what my position entailed. I was their doctor. It was something I proved to have a natural knack for, and it was quite easy for my parents to buy my way through medical school. I could have passed earnestly, given my grades, but a combination of money and blackmail allowed me to cut certain unnecessary corners. I received my doctorate, and I had the training I needed to act as the family’s medical provider.”

Another pause.

“When I… left, I made a… deal, shall we say. In exchange for staying out of their way for the rest of my days, I took with me the sum of my inheritance, which I used to buy the deed for this shop and flat. The owner had to be… persuaded, but he agreed once I dropped a name. The amount of money I have means that I can live comfortably and spend whatever I like on my collection, and never have to sell a single book.”

Crowley processed this. The story was pointedly edited, but he could tell Aziraphale was telling the truth.

“And… why did you leave? _How,_ if they’re really so big?”

“I wasn’t exactly given free reign to pursue my passions. I was constantly in demand, and I could never show that I wasn’t in control. I was sick of it. I wanted to be left alone. At a certain point, things… escalated, between me and a certain president. It was a matter of reputation control that they banished me.”

“Reputation… you mean, you _won?_ ”

Aziraphale gave a rueful smile. “They realized that a man with detailed medical knowledge, who knows the secret weaknesses of every person under their command, and has the express intent to harm can do a great deal of damage.”

A hint of a shiver went down Crowley’s spine at that. He could picture it, frighteningly easy. Had he always known? That Aziraphale was dangerous?

“Would you like a biscuit, dear? I made them myself.” In the midst of his reverie, Aziraphale had pulled a tin of cookies from his desk drawer and was dunking one in his tea.

“Er. No, thanks.” Crowley tried not to watch him lick the crumbs off his lips. “Aren’t you afraid of being found? Of them wanting revenge?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said. “To be honest, I find it far easier to not think about that.”

Crowley was starting to believe he may get whiplash from the amount of times in rapid succession he had to completely reconstruct his perception of this man.

“Wh – I don’t – How can someone be so intelligent, and yet so stupid?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrow.

“Sorry.”

Aziraphale just brushed the crumbs off his collar and stood. “Well, in any case, you now have an answer to why I don’t want to sell any books.”

“So… then, why buy a shop in the first place?”

“I suppose… I just enjoy the routine of it all. It also makes it easier to find and purchase rare books, when you have legitimacy behind you. I can keep records of all of them, keep them in one place.”

“All that’s left is to scare off anyone who wants to buy one.”

“Precisely.”

“Can I help?”

Aziraphale stopped and cocked his head, regarding him curiously. Crowley continued,

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do around here. Inventory’s too easy. I’m dreadfully _bored._ That way, you can go about your- your reading, and whatnot. Right?”

Aziraphale stared at him for a long moment, considering. Crowley put on his best winning smile.

“I believe, dear boy, that we have arrived at a mutually beneficial business arrangement.”

Aziraphale extended a hand, and they shook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale: *cocks gun* i'm a healer, but.....


	11. Making Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! WOOHOO  
> I've had a hell of a semester, folks, to the point where I barely had time to sleep, let alone write. It sucked... so hard. I kept wanting to write and I couldn't because my brain ran out of effort juice doing 18 credit hours and student teaching. But here we are!  
> Since I made you guys wait so long, I figured this needed to be a pretty big boy chapter, so I kept writing little bits, then unloaded and wrote a whole bunch once I was free from school. I'm really excited to hear from you again, because when I needed motivation to write, I would just read and reread comments again :)  
> Hope you enjoy~

The next few days seemed to fall into place after that, as naturally as breathing.

Crowley adapted to his assigned role with newfound purpose and relish. He already dressed and acted the part of “discouragement” on instinct; the healing cuts on his face only added to the slimy grifter image. For most, a well-timed glare from behind his sunglasses as he made power poses near the entrance was enough to send people hurrying past the shop. When that wasn’t enough, he sat on Aziraphale’s desk or stalked around the shelves, cleaning under his fingernails with a pocketknife (no one needed to know that it had been borrowed from Aziraphale’s drawer.) He slinked up quietly behind people and smiled with too much teeth, making them start and drop whatever book they were holding. He rolled up his sleeves and made a show of leaning over Aziraphale’s desk and whispering nothing in particular into his ear, who would look up, make eye contact with the guest, and write something down without breaking it. When that one happened, the customer practically left dust clouds in their wake.

Crowley walked straighter and taller, preening when Aziraphale played along and glowing at Aziraphale’s approval. He never missed a beat in one of those little skits, leading to Crowley’s smug realization that Aziraphale was having just as much fun as he was.

After they closed the shop at whatever time Aziraphale felt like, they would have dinner together. Aziraphale would order food or cook, Crowley helping where he could. He would roll his eyes at Aziraphale’s reprimands to eat more, but obey. Sometimes, a bottle of alcohol was opened, and Crowley was so, so careful.

He kept his distance.

But then they would talk.

They compared tastes in music (“Just because an album was produced within the century doesn’t mean you have to avoid it like the plague, y’know.” “How can you have room to think with all that extra noise, dear boy? Whatever happened to just appreciating a simple composition?”) and traded off listening from the record player and Crowley’s speaker. Aziraphale admitted to liking a few Queen songs, and Crowley tried to keep an open mind to showtunes.

Sometimes, they would sit on a couch and watch a movie on Crowley’s laptop screen. Crowley would complain about the lack of TV and swore he’d buy a projector with his first paycheck. He would also strategically keep a throw pillow to the side, between where he and Aziraphale sat. When they brushed hands, or their legs bumped into one another, he didn’t flinch, and didn’t linger. Crowley was proud of himself for that, for being _normal_ about it.

Sometimes, they’d just talk, sharing stories until the sun set and they both found themselves yawning without realizing. And Crowley would find himself staring at that charming, peaceful face, dimples flashing as Aziraphale talked, and think about how _inadequate_ he felt. Aziraphale was worldly, intelligent. Kind. Talked about things like foreign foods and cultures with such enthusiasm. Crowley wondered how he could possibly add anything to the conversation, even as he made Aziraphale laugh to tears with a story, made Aziraphale smile fondly at his sarcastic quips. They debated and disagreed, and yet Crowley never felt anything but bone deep respect and admiration for the other man.

“I just don’t see how you can discredit _all_ of Shakespeare’s tragedies, when some of the most lauded works of the English canon fall under that category!” Aziraphale gesticulated with a half-full rocks glass, the tops of his cheeks flushed a warm, inviting pink. They had finished their nightly routine of doing dishes side-by-side, and were sat at the dining room table across from each other over a bottle of 14-year old Glenlivet.

“Well, regardless of whether or not they’re important, they’re just not enjoyable like a comedy is. Admit it, did you actually _like_ reading Hamlet in school?”

Aziraphale smirked. “Yes.”

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. “Ugh, you _would_. Set myself up for that one.”

“Have you ever seen it in theatres, dear?”

“No. Only A Midsummer Night’s Dream, when I was in year 12 of school.”

Aziraphale looked scandalized. “Of all the – the _worst_ – ugh, nevertheless.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Hamlet as it’s truly meant to be imagined is _performed,_ rather than read. The soliloquys are meant to be addressed to the audience directly. The _solitude_ is felt more profoundly.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, taking a sip. “We could watch it right now, if you really think so.”

“Oh? How?”

“I could see if I could pirate a bootleg on my computer.”

Aziraphale harrumphed. He fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, clearly torn between getting to prove a point and Crowley engaging in “creative theft,” one of the more amusing and frustrating arguments they had gotten into.

(“It just feels _wrong!_ ” “Aziraphale, we were both in the _mob_. You have GOT to be shitting me right now.” “I didn’t say it made sense, just that it _feels_ morally bankrupt.”)

“Very well, but it has to be good enough quality.”

“You didn’t even know what YouTube _was_ until this week.”

“Maybe, but I have s _tandards_.”

An hour and several failed attempts later, they were watching a rendition that Aziraphale had deemed worthy. Crowley’s glass was empty, and he was debating getting another when Aziraphale interrupted his dilemma.

“Mm. You know, he reminds me of you.” Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed on the screen, pale blue glowing brighter from the reflection. Crowley had turned the display brightness up to see better through his own glasses.

“The character or the actor?” asked Crowley, trying to decide if he should be offended. The titular star of the play was vaguely familiar, definitely someone well-known… David something-or-other.

“I suppose in this instance, they’re interchangeable.”

“What? He doesn’t look a bit like me.”

“Not in looks, persay… More like… Oh, the air you have about you. ‘Method to the madness,’ I suppose. You act a bit of a ham, but I think you’re very clever and you choose everything you do carefully.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that. “Hm.”

“I’m right.”

“Oh, yeah?” Crowley teased.

“I believe I am,” Aziraphale said serenely, unexpectedly serious. Crowley swallowed.

“Also, you walk the same way. You saunter,” Aziraphale giggled, breaking the spell.

“I do not!”

“You _do_.”

They finished the play. Crowley admitted that it was better than reading it, and Aziraphale spent a minute praising the production quality and then berating it for not being experienced live in a _proper_ theatre production. Crowley left Aziraphale lounging on the couch to set their glasses by the sink, recorking the bottle of scotch and returning it to the liquor cabinet. He yawned, stretching, and heard Aziraphale echo him from the other room. He checked his watch: 10:38. Not a bad time to turn in.

Aziraphale stood, straightened his clothes, and smiled at Crowley.

“Thank you for the evening, dear boy. I’m going to turn in. You should as well.”

“R-right.” An odd yearning made him stop in his tracks. He hesitated, before closing the distance between them.

Before he could stop himself, he was wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and hugging him, his chin against the other man’s shoulder. He felt Aziraphale stiffen for just the tiniest moment, then his arms were sliding down Crowley’s back. He could feel Aziraphale’s breath on his ear.

As quickly as he had initiated it, he broke off, stepping backward.

Aziraphale was appraising him, clearly surprised, his hands still hovering in the space where Crowley had been. He flushed.

_Hello? What were you thinking?_

“S-sorry, I didn’t – Is that okay?”

_It was a friendly hug. Men can hug each other, right? Oh, fucking Christ, you were doing so well._

“Ah… of course. More than okay.” Aziraphale said it exceptionally gently. His cheeks were still pink from the booze.

“I – okay. I just wanted to – er, nevermind. Thanks for everything. Okayg’nightAziraphale!” He waved, stumbling slightly, before bolting up the stairs.

As he laid in bed, trying to sleep, he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d _won_ something.

***

Crowley had been living with Aziraphale for a week and then some when Aziraphale announced over breakfast that they were going out to dinner with Anathema and her boyfriend that evening. It was a statement, not a question. Not that Crowley would have objected to anything Aziraphale told him to do, but this _would_ be the first time Crowley went outside since crashlanding into Aziraphale’s hospitality.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? You know…” Crowley gestured to his own face incredulously.

Aziraphale waved it off, mouth half full of scones. “I made reservations to a fine place an hour away from here downtown. We’ll have relative privacy at the table we have, as well. I know the owner.”

“Oh?”

“In an innocent way. Don’t fret, he’ll have no idea who you are, just as he thinks I am simply your average rich inheritor.”

Crowley snorted, but hesitated.

“I don’t know…”

“Do you not want to?”

“You joking? Of course I do. It’s just…” _Bloody idiotic_ seemed too harsh. “…risky. Seems asking for trouble.”

Aziraphale’s face fell a little. Oh God, it was Crowley’s _least_ favorite expression – he started pouting and this little crease appeared between his eyebrows.

“Well… you’ll be safe with me… but you certainly don’t have to if you don’t _want_ to.”

Crowley gritted his teeth, already made up his mind.

“No, no. I’m going.” Aziraphale would know what precautions to take, right? It would be fine.

Aziraphale smiled more delightedly than he had any right to, dimples flashing. “Wonderful. Wear something pretty.”

No need for an occasion. Crowley was already mentally rifling through his wardrobe.

Aziraphale closed the shop early that afternoon, and Crowley excused himself immediately to go get ready. He was jittery, full of nervous energy. He needed to do this _right_. After locking himself in his room, he put on some loud music and took a long shower. Half-wrapped in a towel and brushing his teeth, he laid out his best clothes and surveyed his options, deliberating one shirt and the next, pairing them with his shoes. Stuck between maroon and a deep indigo purple, he eventually decided purple was far too ostentatious and slid the trumpet vine-embossed red shirt over his shoulders. His nicest black slacks, his trim and stylish black leather-trimmed jacket, gold jewelry and belt. In his nerves, he accidentally inhaled some cologne, and during his coughing fit, his eyes fell upon his bottle of black nail polish. His current nails had barely even a scrap left on them after a week of decay and picking.

_Oh, what the hell._

While pacing around his room and waiting for the black paint to dry, a knock sounded at the door. Crowley turned the music down and answered.

Aziraphale was wearing the nicest clothes Crowley had seen on him yet, but it was still so unmistakably _Aziraphale_ that he couldn’t help but smile a little. Deep blue jacket with elbow patches, white shirt… was that a pocket square? His golden curls were slightly damp, betraying a shower, and he smelled sweet and fresh. He looked tall, broad, somehow both rumpled and important. Somehow, he was every bit as vibrant as his more stylish counterpart.

His eyes widened when he took in Crowley’s fit.

“Oh, you look very nice, dear.”

Crowley tore his eyes away from Aziraphale’s freshly shaved and dimpled chin and smirked, facing the window to hide how pleased he was.

“Yeah, yeah, you look… good, too. Thanks.” He flapped his hands slightly, urging the paint to finish. When he turned back, Aziraphale’s eyes were trained on Crowley’s hands.

A creeping and familiar discomfort settled on his shoulders.

“What?” Crowley said warily.

“Just admiring. Do you manicure yourself often?” Aziraphale inclined his head in a pacifying gesture, still smiling benignly.

“Er, yeah, sometimes.” The focus being drawn upon it was unsettling. He blew on them one last time and slid his hands into his pockets. “Are we ready to go or what?”

“Mm, not quite. Our ride isn’t here yet. We have about–” Aziraphale flicked his antique watch toward his face, “–ten or so minutes.”

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“Why, don’t you like surprises?”

“Maybe when my life isn’t on the line,” Crowley grumbled. He checked his nails one more time, and was going to put them back into his pockets when Aziraphale’s continued curious glance in their direction gave him an idea. A patented Anthony J. Crowley-brand Bad Idea.

“Do you want me to do yours, too?”

Aziraphale’s gaze flicked back up to him, raising his eyebrows. There was just long enough of a pause for Crowley to immediately start panicking – before Aziraphale smiled, started rolling up his sleeves, and said, “Go ahead.”

“…Ah. Okay. Er, okay.” He turned quickly away and stepped into the bathroom to grab the bottle. “I only have black, so I hope that’s – oh, wait.”

There was another bottle that Crowley had forgotten about, a deep, metallic gold that he had only used once in a blue moon. Anathema must have thrown that in too. He picked it up, examining it in the bathroom light. It was almost bronze, but more vibrant, with only a subtle shimmer. He emerged, holding it up victoriously.

“This.”

Aziraphale sat on the bed expectantly, looking as excited as a tween at a sleepover. “Oh, that will go perfectly. You have such an eye for color, dear boy.” He held out his hands, poised in expectation, looking up at Crowley.

Suddenly flustered, Crowley sat down.

_Why is my heart beating so fast – oh. That’s why._

He shakily brushed his free hand under Aziraphales, lifting it up as he uncorked the bottle. His hands were so damn warm, but dry. His must’ve been clammier than anything. He tried to concentrate on little, precise strokes. Aziraphale’s hand twitched slightly, and he made the mistake of looking up.

Aziraphale was looking at him. Crowley flushed, hard. He released Aziraphale’s hand and wordlessly reached for the other.

It was unbearably… _something_. Neither of the men spoke for what felt like hours, though it was more likely just a few minutes. Crowley’s heart thundered in his ears – could you rupture an eardrum like this? He swallowed, finishing the last nail and standing too quickly. His head spun a little. Aziraphale looked a little dazed, too.

“Er, there. Let ‘em dry.”

Aziraphale held his hands up to inspect them, stretching out his fingers luxuriously like a pampered cat. He smiled, seemingly satisfied.

“Very good. You’re good at this.”

Crowley was torn between the compliment and what the compliment _meant_. He just scuffed his shoes a little against the carpet, looking away.

“Thanks. Shall we?” The sooner they moved on the better.

“Yes, let’s.” Aziraphale stood, straightening himself casually. “Allow me to lead the way.”

***

After leaving out the back-alley entrance, Crowley’s nerves tensed like a bowstring, Aziraphale had ushered him into the backseat of a sleek black BMW and filed in behind him. The driver at the wheel was a nondescript middle-aged woman, dressed fairly nicely, who did not address them other than to merely start driving as soon as the door closed. Crowley pressed himself against the opposite window and watched out the window, tapping his foot. Aziraphale chattered idly, unperturbed when Crowley only answered with grunts or silence. He was either clueless to Crowley’s nerves or quite nervous himself.

Nervous about the safety risk, of course.

The ride passed in a bit of a blur, and then the car was pulling to a stop in a dark alley. Crowley didn’t recognize the place, but he knew based on the drive time approximately where they were – a pretty damn fancy part of town. He could see bright golden lights in the distant streets. Were they at the back entrance?

Crowley got out before Aziraphale could, surveying the area with sharp eyes. He strode over and opened Aziraphale’s door for him.

“So?”

Aziraphale checked his watch, his golden nails glinting in even the low light of the car’s retreating headlights.

“The owner is coming to let us in… in, yes… right about now.”

Right on cue, the shiny metal door nestled in the bricks swung open. A shadowy figure almost completely indistinguishable in the dark materialized, making “come in” gestures, before retreating back into blackness. Aziraphale strode forward briskly.

“Are you bloody _serious_ right now?” Crowley hissed.

“Don’t throw a strop. Trust me, dear boy.” Aziraphale said this over his shoulder, before being enveloped in darkness.

“Oh, for the love of...”

Crowley followed.

He left the door open behind him, every bit prepared for a fight. When the door shut by itself, he jumped right out of his skin, knocking into a warm figure.

“Oops, steady.” Aziraphale. A familiar hand bumped into his arm, his wrist, before finally wrapping around his own hand. Calloused, warm. He was breathing embarrassingly heavy.

He let Aziraphale lead them in some direction, barely able to see a thing. They were in – a hallway? The light was gradually getting brighter. He did not remove his hand from Aziraphale’s. Finally, Aziraphale stopped in front of a dark wooden door, slipping his hand away from Crowley’s. He watched as Aziraphale slowly, carefully opened the handle and inched the door open, peeking through in the way one does when they need to stay hidden and still see enough. A smile split his face when warm golden light filtered out, and the door swung open. He grabbed Crowley’s shoulder and pulled him in abruptly. Crowley stumbled, regaining his footing, as Aziraphale turned and quickly locked the door behind him.

“Oh, good, you made it! Hello!”

Anathema was sitting at a large, elaborately decorated dining table, next to a nondescript guy who looked uncomfortable beyond belief. Crowley blinked, reeling – the room was downright _ritzy_. The wallpaper was a deep, luxurious draping of golds and browns, with winding light sconces filling the air with a rosy glow. Vases filled with lush low-light plants stood in the corners, and the table itself was shining, engraved mahogany, with velvety purple dining chairs. Not to mention what looked like a five-course meal steaming atop it. It seemed like the table was purposefully prepared for four people specifically, with waiting glasses and empty plates in the corner opposite of the couple in the room.

“Unscathed thus far, aren’t we, Crowley?” Aziraphale was joking next to him, clapping his hands together to evaluate the spread. It took him a moment to realize he was supposed to respond.

“Er, yet. That was some… that was some spy mission.”

“Precautions, dear boy. I know the way to this particular private room by heart.” Aziraphale waltzed over to a chair, pulling it out and gesturing to it. Crowley took the hint and sat, not taking his eyes off the one-and-a-half strangers. Anathema’s perfect eyebrows raised. She had her hair in some braided getup, and was wearing something high-collared in black velvet. The boy looked like the spitting image of an unremarkable university student. Big forehead, glasses, an unflattering sweater with a crooked collar poking out. A wrinkled mass of a suitjacket was slung over his chair, and he was looking at his lap, fidgeting. The “talentless boyfriend” that Aziraphale had mentioned in passing before certainly looked the part.

“Always a pleasure, Crowley. Long time no see. This is Newt, by the way. Newt, Crowley.” Anathema gestured gracefully between the two, her other hand poised in a chin grab. Crowley inclined his head with a grunt at the kid, who looked like he was about to pass out.

_Wonder what the hell she sees in him._

“Jacket, Crowley?” Aziraphale was shrugging off his, primly brushing it off.

“Sure.” He took his own off in his chair, feeling a twinge of jealousy that he didn’t think of doing so first.

“Glasses?”

Crowley looked up sharply at him. Aziraphale was looking pointedly innocent with one outstretched hand.

“I had them turn the lights down just for you.”

“I’m keeping them on.”

There was no way in hell. It still smarted when Aziraphale turned away, that little frown line between his eyes.

_Sorry, Angel._

Aziraphale hung the jackets carefully on a coat rack next to the door and took the seat next to Crowley, scooting himself in. Crowley noticed Newt glance backward at his own ruined jacket in regret.

“Ooo, before we start, shall we have a toast?” Anathema suggested. Aziraphale grinned at her and took the filled champagne glass in front of him, swirling the contents around.

“Wonderful, let’s!” Aziraphale raised his glass. Crowley followed, and raised his eyebrow when both Newt and Anathema both raised glasses full of clear water. Anathema caught his gaze.

“I don’t drink. And Newt here, well, he-” She giggled.

“-Doesn’t drink either, thanks.” Newt cut in nervously.

 _There’s a story there for sure._ Crowley suppressed a laugh.

“Fine, what’re we toasting to?”

Anathema tapped one pointy green nail against her lips. “How about…” She made direct eye contact with Crowley. “To double dates.” She smiled.

Crowley froze in his seat. _Damn her_. He grit his teeth, clinking his glass once before quickly pulling away. He risked a glance over to Aziraphale, who had already taken a sip from his glass and was cheerfully tucking his napkin onto his lap. Seemingly no reaction.

What? Did he not know what she meant by that? Crowley’s brow furrowed, watching him carefully for any sign of disgust or embarrassment. Nothing but the same polite cheer.

Wait-

“Aziraphale, wow, let me see your manicure!” Anathema sat straighter in her seat, leaning forward. Aziraphale, who had reached forward to serve himself, stopped and stretched his hands out to her, beaming.

“Aren’t they lovely? Crowley painted them just for me before we came.”

_Wait-_

Anathema grinned wider, looking between the two of them. “I think that’s very sweet.”

_WAIT-_

Was this a _date?_

Was he _on a double date with Aziraphale?_

Date – as in, _a romantic one?_

No. No _way_. That was _impossible_. Aziraphale had asked him – wait, no wait, Aziraphale had asked him to go out to dinner. That didn’t necessarily mean date _automatically_. Right. Friends did that, colleagues did that. There was – well, hang on, there was no occasion. They had just gone out for fun. Oh, no. And – oh, _no_ – they had _dressed up_ for this. And they had _come together_. And –

For God’s sake, how could Crowley have let this happen, he had _painted both of their nails_. How much more of a _target_ could he have been? Bile rose up in his throat. His hands clenched into fists on his lap.

_Calm down. Don’t let them see._

Crowley squared his shoulders, setting his mouth stiff. He copied the other’s motions, manners instilled into him from years of Catholic dinners. He wasn’t hungry whatsoever, but he had to eat or else it would attract even more attention. He could faintly hear Anathema saying something to Newt as they all served themselves. A soft touch on his elbow made him jump.

“Are you all right, dear?” Aziraphale had paused and was looking at him, a knowing concern in his eyes.

_No – not ‘knowing.’ He couldn’t possibly know. He’s –_

“Yes. Fine.”

_Save it for later. You’re being watched._

Crowley didn’t look Aziraphale in the eye, just took a forkful of something and mechanically chewed it. He didn’t even really know what it was, or taste much of it. He could feel Aziraphale’s gaze boring into the side of his head.

“Oh, Anathema, you simply _must_ have Crowley tell you about how he’s keeping the plants in the flat thriving. He’s certainly much more intuitive than I could ever be.”

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, then over to Anathema.

_Bastards, the lot of them._

“Oh, yes! I had been meaning to ask how they faired in the move. I could tell you know what you’re doing – I’m dying to know how you kept that massive one in your living room alive.”

Crowley sighed. “’S called a Bird of Paradise.”

And after a bit of coaxing, Anathema had Crowley talking about plants. Newt seemed absolutely content to eat silently, and Aziraphale was digging in heartily, only chiming in with occasional comments. At one point, she pulled a familiar notebook out of absolutely nowhere and wrote down the occasional tip he mentioned.

Crowley had no bloody idea what to think of her. What were her intentions? She honestly didn’t seem out for blood, but then she’d go around and say shit like – _that_. Earlier. He also remembered the stupid crystal she gave him – “for success in romance” – was she trying to get him on edge and demean him? Was this all just in good fun for her?

“Have you ever kept anything outdoors? Because, honestly, I have this one patch in my lavender plant that just refuses to not die-”

Maybe Anathema didn’t mean anything by the jibes at all.

He just needed to get it out of his head for now.

It helped that, if he was being honest, the very obvious ploy to get him talking had worked. Aziraphale was chiming in more frequently now, and before long, there was a more equivalent exchange happening as they all ate.

“What do you even do, by the way? Besides run shady errands for him, I mean,” Crowley asked her.

She opened her mouth, but Newt chimed in, “Her parents own stocks in Apple.”

“Rich kid, huh.” Figured.

“I would argue she’s made a substantial effort to do a great deal of good with that fortune,” Aziraphale said. Anathema smirked at him.

“Unlike you.”

“Hush. I took this stray cat in, didn’t I?”

“More like kidnapped,” Crowley grumbled into his glass. He made eye contact with Aziraphale, made a begrudging little smile, just to show he wasn’t being serious. Not really.

“I’m even putting this blessed sap through college. Trust me, I’m a generous spender. My goal is to have given away enough by the time I die to be living in a swamp hut somewhere,” Anathema boasted.

Crowley cocked his head at Newt. “She your sugar mommy?”

He choked on his food. Anathema just looked thoughtful. “I think, technically, I would have to be older than him for that to be applicable.”

“You’re not?”

“We’re both 20.”

“God, what’s with you people and acting way older than you are?” Crowley regarded both Anathema and Aziraphale. They exchanged glances.

“Is it the glasses, or the stubbornness?” Aziraphale laughed.

At one point when they were well into desert, the door opened. Crowley’s head whipped around, suddenly on high alert. Everyone else stiffened too, but they immediately relaxed in familiarity. Aziraphale smiled serenely, back straight, folding his hands on the table.

The man was average build, with close-cropped auburn hair, wearing what looked to be a formal, black-and-white gilded chef’s uniform. He held his hands up in a mollifying gesture as he peeked in.

“Sorry to disturb, did not want to interrupt too bad. Merely wanted to extend my warmest greetings to Mr. Fell and his guests.” He spoke with a very slight, stilted accent – Italian? He gestured with one hand to Aziraphale.

_Mr. Fell, huh?_

Crowley recognized the stranger’s stance very well – it was a display of fear and reverence. Something you perfected as an underling over the years. Crowley could see from here the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he only briefly glanced over the rest of the party before fixing his eyes only on Aziraphale.

“Always a pleasure, Chef. The meal was sublime, as usual. Thank you dearly for impressing us – and for your discretion.” Aziraphale inclined his wine glass in the Chef’s direction, who ducked his head immediately in an almost-bow.

“You’re most welcome, sir. When you are prepared to depart, the car you have requested is in the usual spot.” The Chef glanced back at the door like he was in a hurry, checking his watch with a nervous expression. “I apologize, I must take my leave. Whenever you are ready to return, please do not hesitate to call once more.”

He scurried out as quickly as he came, shutting the door behind him. There was a wooden spoon in his back pocket.

“Perhaps it was too dark to recognize from before when we came in, but that was the owner I mentioned before, Crowley.” Aziraphale sipped his drink, took another bite of his desert.

“That was the owner? Really? Seemed kind of… squirrelly.”

That was an understatement. Crowley had seen men holding live grenades looking less terrified.

“Also, he’s the owner _and_ a chef?” Crowley asked.

“He’s very fastidious in his work. Which is why I continue to patronize his lovely restaurant.” Aziraphale was cleaning his plate. “I mean, really, I’m simply _never_ going to get a truffle cake this good anywhere else.”

Crowley ruminated on that.

If the Chef had no idea what Aziraphale’s history was, then what _did_ he know about Aziraphale that had him acting like that?

Anathema cleared her throat, standing up and tossing her braids over one shoulder. “I think we’d best be heading out, you two. Newt’s got an exam tomorrow.”

Newt went white, standing as well. “Please don’t remind me.”

Aziraphale stood, giving Anathema their standard goodbye embrace and kiss after she gathered her bag. “I had a lovely evening, as usual. Get home safely.”

“No promises! Anyhoo, I’ll see you around, Crowley.” Crowley had stood, feeling somewhat awkward, but thankfully she made no move to get any closer to him. She just tapped one of the jewels around her neck – a pink one – and said, “Good luck.”

He stared at her questioningly, but she made no move to explain. Newt and Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice either, or perhaps were used to her being nonsensical at all times. Aziraphale was bustling them away and out the door, checking his watch.

“We’ll need to wait a few minutes until they’ve made distance, so as to not attract attention.”

“Alright. Makes sense.”

He exhaled a little. Aziraphale handed him his jacket, and he straightened himself, blinking.

“What do you think of her? Anathema,” Aziraphale asked. Crowley leaned against a wall, running his fingers over one of the potted ferns.

“She’s bloody strange.”

“Fair. Well, I suppose I like her enough for the both of us.”

“Well… I don’t know if that’s right, really.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You don’t need to pretend to like my friends if you don’t, dear boy, as long as we’re all civil. You’ll be seeing them fairly often, after all.”

“It’s just that, hrm.” Crowley cast around for the right words. Which weren’t really there, so he settled. “Sometimes, I feel as though she’s trying to tell me something important, and I haven’t the foggiest on what it is.”

Aziraphale tapped his chin, humming. “That does indeed sound like her. Perhaps you’ll figure it out in due time, then.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“But, dear boy, did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yeah… I think I did. Overall. Thank you for, er, aski- inviting me. Out.” He broke into a stutter on the last sentence when he remembered what phrase not to say.

“The pleasure was mine. Shall we?”

***

The ride home was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Just… quiet. Crowley retired to his room right away when they got home. After getting ready for bed and putting on his tackiest pair of black embroidered pajamas, he sat on his bed, feeling restless. He supposed he could fool around on his laptop like normal, but he didn’t really feel like it. He needed something more distracting than that right now.

Crowley glanced over to the storage boxes shoved in the corner, and the one he was using as a nightstand. There was always that. His favorite hobby: snooping. What was even in those boxes, anyway? They had been heavy enough to be any number of things – _books, most likely_ , he thought. Carefully, trying not to reopen any torso wounds that might still be healing, he nudged one of the boxes onto the floor and scooted it into the center of the room.

Kneeling down, he opened it and began to sift through.

Books, unsurprisingly. They were organized in stacks, but some had fallen out of place. Fairly dusty, but not overly so. He picked them out, one by one, vowing to at least try and recreate the same organization later.

There were more than a few medical books, on anatomy and other weird biological terms with too-long names. Those were the heaviest. There was also a few “literature anthologies,” which, after flipping through them briefly, Crowley determined to be a bunch of literature things like poems and such mashed into one book with _very_ tiny lettering. Was this just a box of textbooks?

He found a book on Ancient Greek history. He found a book of Ancient Greek poetry. This one, upon closer inspection, had writing in it; in the table of contents, certain sections were underlined, or had little graphite hearts drawn next to them. He flipped to one such heart.

_Tonight I've watched_   
_the moon and then_   
_the Pleiades_   
_go down_   
  
_The night is now_   
_half-gone; youth_   
_goes; I am_   
  
_in bed alone_

Crowley read the poem, grabbed his laptop to look up what a “Pleiades” was, then read it once more. He was surprised by how simple it was. It was a novelty that he understood a poem’s meaning without a teacher prompting. 

But he had no way of knowing if he was reading it wrong, misinterpreting it somehow. It seemed… sad. Horribly lonely.

_Ugh, poetry gives me a headache._

He put it aside.

After a bit of digging, Crowley found a pale blue binder at the bottom of the box, the plastic lining peeled and yellowing with age. He pulled it out, the weight catching him off guard. The thing was dense – that had to have been a third of the weight alone. And it was easily the dustiest thing in the box. Intrigued, he began to flip through.

It was a photo album, absolutely full of all sorts of pictures. Some were nice and glossy, some were dingy Polaroids. There were pages that resembled a scrapbook, covered in stickers and pen writing.

A shock went through him the first time he recognized Aziraphale’s face. He was much younger, no smile lines, curly hair longer and floppier, much thicker eyeglasses, but he had the same unmistakable smile, dimples and round faced, blue eyes twinkling. He was at – a party? Smiling, taking a picture amongst a group of other boys. All wearing jeans and dorky vests or sweaters. High school? College, maybe?

In another picture, Aziraphale was curled up cozily in an armchair, fast asleep. He looked even younger that way. Crowley wondered who had taken this one.

Aziraphale, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket, focused intently on a book in front of him. There was someone sitting next to him whose face wasn’t in frame. It was sunny, with dandelions scattered all throughout the grass.

Aziraphale posing with a group of eccentric-looking people and a statue of some kind. It was far too blurry to read the plaque. Aziraphale had both his arms around a tall, short-haired girl and a short, long-haired boy.

Aziraphale, in an astonishingly hideous pale pink suit, waltzing. His partner was… a boy. Other couples were only faintly visible in a colorful background blur, but Aziraphale’s expression was familiar – content. Confident. Crowley’s stomach was in knots.

A knock echoed like a gunshot through the room, and, in slow motion, the unlocked doorknob was already turning before Crowley could do anything to stop it. He could only watch in numb horror as Aziraphale, also dressed for bed, wandered in.

“Crowley, I accidentally pocketed that nail polish from before and found it in my jacket – oh.”

Paralyzed, he watched Aziraphale take in the scene: open box, books in an array around him, posed right in the middle of browsing his personal photos.

“Hm,” was all he said.

“I- I wasn’t- Er.” Crowley’s tongue couldn’t be more tangled in itself if he tried. It would’ve been funny if he wasn’t preparing for the worst.

“Snooping about, are we?”

There was no way Crowley could look up. Aziraphale’s tone was flat at best.

“I- I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to – do – er, anything bad, with anything, I was just bored and looking at your books and this was in there and I… got curious,” He finished lamely.

Even the briefest of silences afterward was enough to send Crowley directly into a panicked spiral.

“I’ll forget I saw anything. I’ll sleep on the couch. Whatever you want. Er, you can, I don’t know, threaten to kill me or something, I don’t bloody well know, I’m sorry-”

“Calm down.”

Crowley stared, mystified, when Aziraphale suddenly knelt, then sat cross-legged on the floor next to him. He was still very much unable to move. Aziraphale’s expression was placid, which was somehow even more deeply unsettling than outward anger. Crowley had only the faintest ideas as to the full extent of Aziraphale capabilities, but he could make a damn good guess.

Aziraphale was looking down at the open page of photos. He made an indecipherable humming noise at the back of his throat, then reached forward and turned a page. Crowley didn’t know whether he was allowed to look or not, but he couldn’t exactly avoid it.

The pictures on the next page were of a… parade? A festival? Crowley recognized Aziraphale amongst the masses, laughing, drinking, dancing. People of various shapes and sizes, but all of them wearing colorful, glittery clothes and facepaint and flowers and wigs. Aziraphale, holding a handheld rainbow flag, wearing a tacky rainbow bow tie, a blue flower crown resting like a halo on his head.

“This was at London Pride. I was 21. I went with my university’s Gay-Straight Alliance club. Good people. I do so hope they’re doing alright these days.”

Aziraphale’s voice was light. He turned the page again. More pictures from the same party, and this time they were all of Aziraphale, smiling hand in hand with a handsome, red haired bloke. Crowley realized numbly that this was the same boy Aziraphale was dancing with in the pink suit.

“This was Raph, my very first partner. We met in the GSA. We broke up soon after that, though, he was moving far too fast for me.”

Aziraphale turned the page again. This page was composed entirely of Polaroids. Blurry, chaotic shots of all sorts of people, including Aziraphale, in a dimly lit club. In one photo, Aziraphale was kissing a girl on the cheek, who had a shaved head and glittery hoop earrings, while someone’s disembodied hand sneaked a peace sign into the frame. In another, Raph was wearing hot-pink stiletto heels with skinny jeans and a leather jacket, posing with one foot in the air while… was that really Aziraphale? He was bent over and laughing uncontrollably next to him.

“This was when we all got into the local gay bar for the first time. A bunch of little fools, no doubt. I ended up dragging most of them home.”

Crowley stared and stared, transfixed. He finally looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale was _amused_. He stood up, closed the book, and tapped it lightly. Dust clouds floated in the air.

“Since you were curious, my very modest past with partying is over. At the very least, not _that_ sort. I enjoyed the community. I enjoyed the people I met. They are part of what made me who I am today.”

Crowley, for the life of him, could not have identified what his own face was doing at that moment as he stared. Aziraphale tucked the album under his arm and set the little bottle of gold nail polish on Crowley’s bed. He walked out the open door, but paused, then turned around and looked Crowley directly in the eye, who was still dumbfounded and glued to the ground. Aziraphale’s gaze burned with urgency. He opened his mouth, closed it again, before finally saying,

“Crowley. Not all curiosity… kills the cat. Does that make sense?”

He shifted.

“Hm, er, well, perhaps that doesn’t make much sense. In any case, you should… rethink the things you’ve been told all your life. I promise you that it will only bring you good things. Eventually.”

Aziraphale sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“… Well. Good night, Crowley. In the future, I would _prefer_ that you _ask_ before rifling through my things, but that’s not because I’m your _boss_ or your _warden_ or any other silly idea in your head. That would simply the courteous thing to do as a roommate and a friend.”

Crowley finally spoke. His voice cracked. “Right.”

Aziraphale dithered in place for another short moment, before finally closing the door behind him. Crowley started putting the books away, back into their box.

He kept one out. He opened it, flipped to the same poem he read earlier. Read it one more time.

Put it in the box. Closed the box. Carefully put the box back in its place.

Crowley didn’t fall asleep for a very long time that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my desire to explore their queerness and Crowley’s gender-nonconformity in a way that fleshes out how both of them view themselves and the world in dynamic, complimentary and also conflict-inducing way  
> VS.  
> my desire to accurately or at the very least realistically depict the thoughts and actions of two grown-ass, raised catholic, ex-mobster men in their 30's  
> FIGHT!
> 
> OH BY THE WAY IF YOU HAVEN'T CHECKED OUT MY PLAYLIST FOR THIS FIC YET, IT ABSOLUTELY FUCKING RIPS AND I'VE BEEN WORKING ON IT CONSTANTLY SO WHAT'S UP  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7dDhvSEhamcxgU4vJNBQ2D?si=ku79iJmLQZaRtiGZ_bfaAg


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